My Footsteps on the Floating Dock

Prose, Volume 5; Issue 1

The sun came up, illuminating the tops of the peaks in a rose-colored glow, as wisps of clouds scuttled along their snow-covered highways. The mountains seemed impossibly high, brooding over green-clad hills, reflected in the iron-grey water that lapped at my feet. Seagulls circled, some landing and cracking shellfish open along the shore. A fresh wind rippled the surface of the water, where mere inches to feet below the surface, the bed was covered in mussels, clams, and oysters, thick on top of each other.

A mountain stream rushed between the cabins and emptied out onto the rock-strewn tidal flat, its flow disappearing among the rocks, shells, and seaweed until it trickled into the water. Boats tied to the long dock bobbed in the water, tugging at their mooring lines as if wishing to be free. My footsteps on the floating dock sent ripples across the surface of the water from underneath the dock as I walked. I peered into the crystal-clear water, certain that I had earlier seen the circular ripple of fish rising to the surface to feed, looking for their movement, but none were to be found, perhaps so well camouflaged by their color against the background of shellfish that they were unnoticable.

The fresh evergreen scent was on the wind, along with a faint smell of smoke from some distant fireplace chimney. I examined the rocks on the beach, thinking about how much my wife would love to fill our car with them for her garden in the backyard. I walked back to the waterfall, noting the careful placement of stones, rocks, and plants at odd angles, thinking about how this might look in our yard.

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