76 Summer Haze

Fiction? Maybe not. Probably more like memories…

I arrived earlier than usual. Not so early as to have beaten the fishermen. No, the pickup trucks and trailers of various shapes and sizes line the parking area.  I pull past them to the hand load area and become aware of the intrusive crunch of my tires on the shale. The launched boats would have headed north or west. They don’t like the ‘gator infested southern shallows that I prefer. Pale light illuminates the lazy waft of fog lifting from the water as I lower the kayak from the roof rack.  Unconsciously, I’m moving quietly.  I don’t want to interrupt the spell the break of morning is weaving. Night carried the old magic and is now passing through the mist. The mangrove heads are quilted with bright white birds which are just beginning to rustle wings and shift from their perches. Heron, Egret, and Ibis gather here, as undisturbed by motorboats as neighborhoods along the interstate.  Unloaded and ready, I park and walk back to my kayak. The late summer morning has the barest hint of autumn, it’s not quite 80 degrees yet.  I paddle out, skirting well away from the roosts. The sky transforms from hues of blue into a candy pink wash. I feel the sun as it breaks the horizon line. Suddenly, in one mind, and one motion the birds take flight. As the spell of morning breaks, the last tendrils of steam float up behind the last of the flight and vanish in the magic of the sunlight.

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