And then you beat me into the water.

I'm watching the cloud scoot by;
behind it an overcast sky pushes
slowly the other way. The grey
over lighter grey
seems awkward and dark above
the lake, out of context compared
to the sun-scarred planks under
my bare toes. You'd think I'd want
to go in before I got wet, but why?
I came to swim, and the lake isn't
getting any dryer because the sky
is a little wet.

As long as there's no thunder,
I'll slip into the water and tug myself
into place in the inner tube, letting
my head fall back against the plastic
plumped with fifteen minutes of
near-hyperventilating breathing
interspersed with long, slow, deep
breaths to keep myself not dizzy.
My toes will drift along the silky, silty
mud of the lake bottom, tiny clam
shells half-buried, until I dig them
out absently. Or I'll feel the slimy
pull of weeds, the water fronds that
clog the bottom from four feet deep
to the middle of the lake--they're
why nobody ever swims alone.

I'm in my tube. No worries. You
don't have to come in; just watch
from the dock as I swim, sheltered
under the gazebo. You don't have
to get wet.
Unless you want to.