not reserved

He woke to the pulse of a mild thought. The full moon's light reflected off his long mirror and against the yellow Carnesian inspired wall paper. He thought about his life and himself and what about the plight of not just man, but of all life - the hunger, the love, the hate, and all the rules, games of society and unspoken understandings his blood feels each and everyday.

The ocean air flowed into his bedroom window of the old farm house and he slipped on his sneakers, shorts and an old t-shirt that said Randolph Football. He quickly walked down stairs, and out the back door of the red farm's kitchen. The July air off Cape Cod is salty and blue. And he ran to the dock.

He heard the flap of bird wings, the struting stallions, moving sheep and ambient inner habor waves.

As he stood on the dock and looked out on the inner habor, he wanted more. He stripped naked and jumped.

Swimming quickly and smoothly he swam across to the captain's house. He unroped the little wooden rowboat called The Dolphin and began rowing himself out into the Nantucket Sound. His furry that resounded from all that was left unsaid, left behind and cast offed vibrated from his heart to his arms, back, hand and legs and he rowed out past the anchored yachts and scooners.

Breathless he let go of the oars and turned to face the full moon. It's glow reflected off the wrinkles of the moving waters, our hero stands up, wobbling with the row boats and screams out to the middle of the wide exspance of waters. Wet and naked he yelled and beat his chest like a mad man. Incomprehensable screams he yells - a language hidden deep in human species knowledge, primitive and effective - He screams. A small speck in the middle of the span of the Nantucket Sound, he screams at the wide and infinite Atlantic and it's star jeweled sky.