Walking along the pier, right at the elbow that bends up towards Fairhaven, I notice a shy heron walking deliberately among the pilings. It’s twin legs and long neck hide the bird as it rests near the jagged grey-brown grain of whole trees, de-barked and weathered. Only when the heron gracefully kissed the water for fish, did I notice it.
Not many others on the pier at 7 in the morning, on a Sunday, in July. I’m thankful for the feeling that I own the place. The tide is low, and mossy rocks air out their backs. One set of rock reminds me of a dragon, resting it’s head in the water, another group looks like an ancient pillar that fell at conquest centuries ago, the segments now broken, as a dotted line.
Eelgrass catches my attention. Bent over in the heavy current, sways gently, little wind to push them both. It looks so soft I want to dive into it. My mother trained us to NOT swim in grassy water; tree branches lurked under there and will snag your clothes to death. This morning, I want to swim in the dangerous grassy water. Will the tips and smooth edges of the blades tickle me? My laughter would echo with the morning birds.
I want to do it.