That day we
Jumped into Barton
Creek
October.
Fully clothed and
cold as anything
before our jump—
a man
clearly surprised to see
three elementary kids in his spot
slipped out of his day clothes and into the water
his every confident stroke
taking him from the cove towards the far bank
I’ll admit I wanted to
steal his clothes, stash them somewhere a squirrel might
take them. Do something wicked for once.
A college professor confessed
during that second lonely spring,
that she and some friends would be
Sneaking into the university’s lake property
To take a proper dip to mark
The sun’s return, though it wasn’t quite warm enough
to swim.
I craved that independence
the water and the ways it frees me
somewhere mine, somewhere constant and secret, something I’d have to
admit
somewhere where there may be
mermaids, or naiads, or fairies, or
any sort of creature I wanted to be before I grew into
a young man
our river is no longer visited by us. The time capsule
truly lost.
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