The air is so still, so sticky, so soaked I can feel it in my lungs. It is sticking to my eyebrows and beard as I walk to the corner. A rivulet drops down between my eyes and hangs for an instant on the tip of my nose before jumping off.
Seeing others primp and preen for relief, I feel...vindicated – my wrinkled linen will breath, relax, cool.
It’s been a while since I’ve looked meaningfully upon her, so I sit purposefully facing east so I can see her today, my lake.
She is impossibly still, the surface just barely making grand swirls, like buttercream dappled with silver sugar pearls. No sun to be seen, just an expansive sky, a fragile yellow glow. The horizon today is brought close to shore by the watery air and is crisscrossed by sailboats’ masts. The scene looks like toothpicks poked through icing on a cake holding up a scoop of lemon sorbet.
The trees bow with leaves plump and heavy with water both inside and hanging about. They reach down to caress my park’s lawn; freshly cut the scent is drawn over and sneaks in like some intoxicating Alpine cocktail of elderflower and gin.
Oh, I wish these windows would open; the roof would disappear!
To stand,
eyes closed and head back,
right arm up, hand a sail in the air;
left arm down, hand a sloop in the water.
Morning of September 11, 2019