Shelter Island

It is 5:30 am and the water is as still as Micah. The house I am living in with 18 young people are fast asleep, still. I want to roll over and fall back to asleep, but I am also drawn to why am I awake? Is there a reason? And this is why I put the kettle on to boil, make a cup of tea and slip out the front door to find an Adirondack chair and watch the morning shift from grey to blue grey to blush. It is humid and warm and the water is still and so I must swim.

Here I am on a place where boulders should have mermaids sitting atop them, singing siren songs to the passing fishing boats, of which there are not even one this morning. I float in the clear water, rocks marbling the bottom of the bay. A white heron dislikes my presence and shifts from fishing at the rock nearby to another farther away. The Hawiians say that blessings are bestowed upon us through the coves around the islands, and here I am on an island being blessed by the quiet and perfection of this moment.


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