Lying on the dock, full length and face down; I wiggle and shift to find woody places among the boards that don't dig into flesh, leave splinters. I watch the water under the dock, listen mesmerized by ceaseless gurgles swishes. I become the lazy movement over water. Then roll over slowly so I do not to hurt a rib. I've done that and been bruised for weeks. Let the sun dry my skin and bathing suit. Early mornings I lie naked, savouring the first heat in every skin fold and crease, softened muscles melting into the warming dock boards one by one.

I pull my hat down enough to shade my eyes and still watch the gulls wheeling overhead. They swoop down to reclaim their place at the end of the dock, carrying crabs to crack open. They veer away when I bang a shoe on the boards or pitch small stones to stop them pooping in the water; they squall in protest.

Late summer morning wake-up swims are hasty and vigorous until the water gets too cold, even for that. Wrapped in the largest towel I dry my hair in the wind or dangle my feet over the edge in the last of the afternoon sun, splashing into memories.

Finally, it's time for a chair in the sun at the end of the dock, leaving the autumn-shaded meadow to read or gaze over the lake towards Treasure Island and watch lights begin to glow over Mindemoya shore.

Soon crinkled brown leaves swirl down onto the dock and catch themselves in the cracks between boards. They make a mouldering, knobby surface. Leaves float on the water then huddle back to shore - premonition of snow to come. 

The dock is pulled out of the lake so it won't heave with winter ice and then be yanked away by rolling next spring waves to float down the shoreline to who knows where.

In winter, the dock rests on the meadow near shore. There it stays, slowly becoming heaps with drifts of snow and ice - a bulge in the landscape holding separation and remembrance.