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.

eelgrass 2

Northwest Eelgrass


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