The morning air was softly warm.
No. Not quite warm, but, not quite cold, either.
Fog hung over the water of the bay, before the Sun rose,
the world ending in a curtain of gray hanging a few feet from the shore.
I slipped down to the leaden water lapping gently against the sand, and,
Slipping off my clothes slid naked into the comforting water of the bay,
While a heron watched, like Polonius, partly hidden by the fog's curtain.
The water was too shallow to swim there, but, I splashed around,
Reveling in the freedom, the feel of sand, water, and air,
As each brushed past my boy's goose-bumped body.
In less than ten minutes I returned to my bicycle on the shore, and,
With my clothes, put my public identity back on, and pedaled off into the day,
Leaving Mr. Heron with a story to tell about the strange bird he had seen in the fog.
Donovan Baldwin