entering the lake

Feet adjust. From socks and shoes to nakedness. From the splintered
surface of the dock to water. Cold. Yearning to leave hard surfaces to
plane through liquid. To be duck, to be fish. To leave behind the burden
of weight, to forget what is vertical, in reflections of all that is horizontal
across the lake, the tops of pines in dark water, the bluff.
Arms reach and reach. Search for something to hold on to. Not feet.
Soon there will be a myriad of rocks, dry pine needles and bits of cedar, roots
to navigate. With arms still empty, reaching.