Late August 8 o’clock is barefoot, and sunburned in the places that are always sunburned. Worn skin and deck slats hold onto leftover noon. Beneath, swirls the near unknown. Blue-black and edgeless, it’s awake but calmer as the day savors a slow-motion finish. Out of respect for the sunset, those at rudder or wheel embrace a lakewide no wake zone. Our blooms of whistle and sigh fill the dusk hour.
Someone somewhere is lighting a fire. It can be felt in the shoulder blades, when breathing slows. A ripe sense of abundance carries in the peach pink light—a promise that the season won’t fade, that deck children never age, and their waters never freeze. The birch chorus agrees, and this false truth soothes tired limbs that know better, but choose to accept the judgement of the night arriving. Because tender are the day’s dying breaths, and a special care is taken here for every move.
Peeling away layers, hair stands high on the skin with the pines on the hillsides. Bundle your things under the bench, or the winds may take them. There is a silence here with something to say. Toes hug wood’s edge and the muckgrasses nod in tune to a song that is there but not wholly heard. It’s important to watch first; it’s important that you try once again to read the neon pattern in the waves. A familiar laugh through cabin window will interrupt this.
The ladder is better for the evening swim. Submergence is best performed slowly then all at once, with careful attention paid to the detoured bloodflow of sunburned skin. Reflections of the promise unravel as they scatter into sky. Dip your darkness into the horizon and feel the day’s heat collapse inward, easing the blushes of your superficial pain. Let the other foot leave the trust of algaed metal, as the body’s pieces spread suspended. A group of fiery orbs blink aloft in an endless cold.
Our stars are connected only by stories, and here—where the sky is reflected in water—the hair on your hillsides can nod along to the half-heard tune of eternity. This is the end of the dock.