Still in her nightclothes, she stood in the damp grass, watching the swirling morning fog that veiled the lake, strands of the wispy gray unwinding skyward, wraithlike. It was thick enough to conceal the loons that called mournfully in the mist. Their molting was almost complete, signaling their departure, signaling ice up, winter. She envied the loons, their closeness, their ability to molt and migrate. At the water’s edge now, she turned over the old canoe, and, leaving her nightclothes on the shore, shoved off into the lake, paddle-less, letting the slight breeze carry her into the fog. The water was warmer than the cool fall air eddying around her and with barely a splash, she let herself slip into its consoling embrace.
An offering in six sentences for Zoe at Recording Life Under the Radar. This weeks cue is SLIP!