Something About Nature

I waited too long to pull the kayak out of the lake. November water is meant for freezing, not for the fishing of hands grappling with firm knots. I remember tying that knot three months earlier thinking, "Security." In November, security means something else. August perceptions are green and warm. Today, I understand Ishmael with the gray November testing his patience. The kayak is red, orange, and yellow: a perpetual sunset bought used from a man at work who didn't have time for it anymore. I took in his orphaned solace and spent my summer growing sunburned and strong on smooth water. This memory lives far away as my hands are gnawed by wind and water, bare branches, bare afternoon. I walk home, lifeless as November, but I am still shaded by a sunset and careful not to drop this moment.