I stare deep into the water of the river well past the ripples of my feet.  Swimming in my thoughts I’m aware of only the quiet gurgle of the water lapping beneath the boards of the dock.  It’s hot, sticky hot.

The Spanish moss hangs low on the branches of the live oaks like the greying lace of curtains in an old window.  Just below the nearest branches turtles line up on a log in the sun as army helmets on a store shelf.  A small snake in the water just beyond them in the tall grasses moves quickly across the surface. 

A crane with knees that bend backwards stabs at unseen morsels near the river edge littered with the fallen blossoms of a crepe myrtle tree.  I move on the rough wood and feel the heat beneath the palm of my hand.  The cool water splashes against the dry skin of my calf.

The buzz of a small fishing boat passes before me as it makes its way towards the old draw bridge.  The horns are already sounding to stop traffic for it to pass through.  A plane banks over the top of the pines as if snubbing the world below. 

A manatee surfaces near me.  Her soft whiskered face eyes me cautious before she sinks again below the murky brown wet.  I stand and slide wet feet into flip flops and head back towards the sand path that winds between the ferns.  This is home.  This is life.  This is summer, lazy and slow on a river that runs north.