Not many of us are at the lake this early. I am proud of myself for finding it, with only the view from my 18th floor window to guide me in the right direction through city streets that are still drowsy, hours away from the morning rush.
There is the runner, who sheds her shoes and stretches facing the lake as if bowing in devotion. And there is the treasure hunter, who scans the sand with his metal detector, pausing for examination every time it squeals. He pokes a hole with his toe, and if further beckoned, he kneels. And digs.
Back and forth, one row and then the next. Now here's a man with stories to tell, of possessions lost and found, and surprises just below the surface.
I lose myself in this picture.
I feel a kinship with him, every morning when I rise before the rush and my hand walks from left to right across the page. Back and forth, one row and then the next. We both listen for things that want to be found. He is catching metal; I am catching words. A whole story, if I'm lucky. If I listen, and then bend low to really dig.
There is a new comfort in my Brooklyn mornings since we greeted the day on that shore. I imagine him there, and the two of us treasure hunt together.
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