The water’s been rising all month, as it will
When the snows and spring rains are sinking.
Some years more, some years less. This year,
More. A heavy winter, a warm May. The shore
Now is the rock-lined footpath that will be
One or two humans high above the beach
Come August. Daughter and father sun off
On the rocks of the path after a cold swim.
This is a good thing. Dogs and hikers amble by,
Surprised to share their wooded trail with swimmers.
“We’re like mermaids,” says daughter.
“That’s what I’ve always thought,” says father
Swinging his painful, nearly useless legs,
Back into the indifferently merciful water.
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