The sky is turning a lovely orange-red now in a ribbon above the hills. Above the orange-red lies a ribbon of blue, and above that the sky fading into black studded with persistent stars. A rooster crows across the bay. Howler monkeys were growling in the canyon right below me a few minutes ago. The waves wash rhythmically onto the beach directly below me. A slight breeze drifts through the screens lining the length of my cabaña. New sounds of new birds waking up now—one chirping, the other whistling. I sit here writing with no worries on my mind, my children and grandchildren to love, sad about losing Sarah, Ali, Sammy, and Miles—but one simply has to take the sorrow that might come from love. The orange-red is turning to vermillion, fading. The sun is about to rise. And there again is the growl of the howler monkeys who have now traveled across the bay. This is my last morning (for a while) in Playita (next to Playa Venao), Panama. Very difficult to think of flying back to winter and the country of Donald Trump tomorrow. Okay, here comes the sun, the cirrus clouds rose threads across the sky—enough to make anyone believe in God.