orientation

For nearly a week, it was the lake, ovular and clear-bottomed, dotted
with small islands spreading west. I could see it peeking through the pines,
the gloss of it rippling in the early fall wind. Small waves slapping the dock
were like soft clearings of the throat: ahem, ahem, and in the dark,
with the moon blanked out by rain clouds, I could still tell where the trail ended
and the water began. Afternoons, my fingers wove a porous net
as I dipped and glided around the cove. Summer’s last mosquitoes
hovered like Harpies around my ears, but it was no use. I had already fused myself
to the strokes, made an arrow of my legs, found a rhythm in my lungs.
Even weightless, even groundless, I was certain I would never be lost again.