by Lorelei E. Sieja
Crisp morning dew spreads over my bedroll
damp feather pillows smell like the island
musky, rotting wood, pine pitch and mushrooms
Soft snores and deep even breaths sound
from deep in the canvas tent
I am the first of six cousins to awaken
Silently I slip from the green enclave to exchange
my flannel gown for damp terry towel
timid and sleepy, I step over pine needle paths
Granite monuments stand silently enshrouded
in thin mists rising from Abram's Pond
One loon drifts by, with ghostly cry he's gone
Springfed mountain pond is clear and cold
yet warmer than the air on this July dawn
bare feet approach the rocky ledge, hair unbraided
The calm water mirrors both me and island
yet clearly displays the rocky depths
towel falls, I dive into cold, tingling wakefulness
Eyes wide open, I swim beneath the surface
to perch, breathless, on Sitting Rock
granite worn smooth and carpeted with slick green
In silent stillness I bathe, the perfumed soap
soft and sensual, slides over bare skin and
long wet hair as sun peeks over the treelined shore
I swim out beyond Seagulls Landing, leaving
a faint wake of soap, already dissipating
no foaming ripple remains to betray my presence
Mermaid Rock beckons, I respond, to scramble
nimble and naked, onto its coarse surface
lined with lichens. I recline in dawn's faint rays
Soon the others will awaken, and I must share
the new morning and the mountain water
but for now, this moment is only mine.
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