Leaving the cool of the house. Into the small shade of the concrete deck. Most of it bakes in the sun. The heat is stifling. The water looks nearly flat. The ever-present wind is absent today.
A loose robe. More against the sun, and maybe a little out of modesty for the neighbors.
—
Just off the porch, a gravel path leads down the bluff with its parched bushes. It soon emerges from the last bit of shade cast by the lone mimosa tree. Onto the wooden deck that straddles the first sea wall. The wood is splintered from exposure. No protection from the force of water needed today.
—
Down the wooden steps to the lower landing and onto the concrete slats of the dock. Each one hot underfoot. The water is brown. Murky. Halfway out, a school of fish lingers just beneath the surface.
The water looks hot.
Why are they not hiding in the depths or under the dock? The sun is directly above. The sky is a glare. Huge clouds bulge all around the horizon. Pregnant with energy. They will surely unleash later—but not now.
The little sun sail casts some shade over the rope hammock strung between the poles at the end of the dock. Just offshore, styrofoam swimmers mark the crab traps dropped by some local fishermen in the early hours. They barely move.
—
The rickety shower, mounted to one of the posts, sputters. At first, it produces almost hot water. Then, fresher—cooler—water from the well at the far end of the property slowly makes its way through the buried pipes. Drops and spray glisten in the sun before they merge with the murky river below. The river is five miles wide. It looks like a stagnant, ancient sea. Barely a motion. Not even sea birds today.
—
Something eases. The body cools. Skin prickles. The heat hasn’t gone—but it lifts for a moment. Rinsed off. Along with the sweat and stickiness. Suddenly, there is more of a breeze—or maybe it just feels that way.
—
In the hammock. Damp. Quiet. The robe now a crumpled shape on the dock. The fish have vanished. The clouds swell. Maybe a nap, while the world bakes.