Atop a secret ridge under a special ironwood, my friends and I  would watch the world below rotate. We were always the last to see the Suns final rays and the clouds that we could almost touch would spiral in on the great night wind.   As stars formed under this Hawaiian sky there were no sounds of the city below us, only a canvas of lights. Few places on earth could calm the mind so easily, nor give you the feeling of being just a voyeur of this world with no other cares. Such a beautiful place. Cool air almost too cool. We would long for the warmer side of night down by the ocean, but the song of the great ironwood kept us there, her whistle was the siren's call of night. 

Atop this ridge a sign of change in our lives was present. The planes that we watched take off from the reef runway would soon be carrying us to our future. Mine was Cincinnati. Eventually they built a house on this land but my memories of this place are too magical to be replaced, maybe it was because they kept the Ironwood and her song I can still hear from five thousand miles away.

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