On the Water

Your limbs ache before you set into the water, a ghost of weariness sitting in the lapping waterfront. The beach growls coarse under the boat lugged out and set down in the shallows.

Scooting out, inch by inch, there comes a moment of drifting weightlessness, you dip an oar first into the water, which turns quickly from clear seaweed yellow to cool blue black as you glide out.

It comes a little more natural this time, your knuckles do not graze the hard weave material of the boat. The paddle rises into the air and falls in wide singular motions, unfurling out around you.

You stop at the centre of the lake, buoyed in the wind’s small waves. It’s quieter than it’s been. A hand lowers into the black. The surface is cold, but it isn’t under. You wonder how safe it would be

to fall asleep in the boat, lay back a little and just drift. It’s never tipped yet, and it’d only be for a little while. Half an hour at the longest. You won’t. But you stay a while all the same.

The surface is cold, but it isn’t under.