Chesapeake Bay

It’s dark and hot and silent. The only sounds in my ears are the whisperings of a soft breeze and the intermittent twitter of crickets. A lightning bug flashes its light, a Morse code signal of lust. I watch the insects waltz with each other, court each other, and then gradually disappear into the growing dark of gardens. The bushes rustle impatiently as puffs of air weave through them. Holly leaves press against each other; sharp spines glide delicately past one another with no harm done. The scent of salt water is fainter here than at home. The brackish water is warm and soft. It caresses your skin when you slip in, calm ripples touching your body and silky sand forming to the shape of your feet, just as the waves and sand of the northern Atlantic would bombard your frame with cold salt and frigid power. Everything here is gentle and beautiful.
I have a feeling of complete safety while encompassed in the cocoon of a hammock and swaying slightly in the twilight. The dusk is not frightening, but comforting. The dark does not press in from all sides as it does other places. It simply falls in all around you and holds your hand. Allowing an arm to emerge from my secure nest, the knuckles of my hand brush against the softest and greenest grass I’ve ever seen or imagined. It murmurs sweet nothings to all my senses. It embraces my fingers, sings to my sight and hearing. I can smell and taste it in the breeze.
I stare up at the partial canopy that the two anchor trees of the hammock display, and sigh as the wind picks up slightly, cooling my summer-hot skin. I lift my head from the mesh of the hammock and prop myself up, a bit awkwardly, on my elbows. The netting cuts into my arms. It leaves a strange red imprint in my skin. Despite the tiny bit of pain it causes, I breathe out in awe at the sight before me.
The entire bay positively sparkles in the night’s new moonlight. The semi-warm water glistens as it pours itself upon the small beach, washing small stones and jetsam over the cooling sand. The piers of my uncle’s house and all his neighbors’ throw themselves out to sea. Farther away I see small boats bobbing with the slow tide. An osprey in her summer nest adjusts her wings before sleep. Finally, I know I can bear no more of this perfect night, this gorgeous view.
I slowly lower my feet to the ground, and then stand. Leaving my sleepy cocoon is not as hard as I’d imagined. I walk across the yard, jade-green grass swishing with gentleness against my feet. I come to the familiar creaky door in less time than I’d hoped for. As I get closer, I put my hand out for the worn metal handle, but stop half way there. I reach up, directly above my head, and jingle the bells of the wind chime, causing a sweet tinkle like that of minute bells. Then, pulling the handle down, I quietly creak the door open to the loud sound of laughter.