The breeze crepes the lake like the back of my hand.
How odd that air and age betray themselves so similarly.
I launch with a loud slap on the bottom as the board hits the water;
Paddle hardest against the wind first. Once around is enough.
The water bugs team beside me, low above the water
Milling like commuters at Grand Central; a scrum
That seems to have purpose but that might just be
Wishful thinking that there is order in life.
Little fish zip madly, nervously, beneath me,
Trying to eat without being eaten but
The big fish need only to laze and wait for food to come to them.
Paradigms of privilege-too obvious an observation to be a metaphor.
Dawn is smooth; before the air heats. Mid-day is a challenge.
Rule One: wear a hat with a chin strap and ignore fashion for
The wind picks up out of nowhere, choppy white caps that rock your ride.
Balance is Rule Two, learned the hard way.
At sunset the moon rides in the center of the lake.
Clouds and trees; as above so below
But the angle lets you see more in the reflection than in the reality.
Dead calm, easy strokes: I want a second time around.
E.E. Whiting, formerly a trusts and estates attorney in the financial services industry, is now a memoir writer. A frequent contributor to the Summer Fiction issue, she is also a reader of the submissions to this issue.
