On a fall morning the lake heaved a great sigh.
Its breath hung midair and spread across the two-
acre park—from playground to picnic area—
trailing women joggers along the concrete path
which wound like a snake of stone. We had strayed
from the company of his ten-year-old cousin’s
birthday party and now stood by the lake where
mallards and geese dipped their heads in the water
and roamed banks of soft clay and dead grass.
We were miles away from prying eyes watching
our grazing hands, our hesitant lips. I glanced over
at the men’s restroom, vacant, unguarded.
I squeezed his hand, but we remained frozen in place.
We listened as the door swung closed on loose hinges.