Michigan Dreams

I'm sitting on a rock out at the point. I've got my knees drawn up to my shoulders with my arms around them and my elbows pointing out, one towards the lake and one towards the shore. I sit for longer than it takes to let my mind clear a little, and slowly the sky gets brighter. The clouds' bellies turn yellow, then pink, then red, but then a new layer of clouds settles in, delaying sunrise just a little. I hear a noise to my left.
There you are, hopping down the rocks like a mountain goat. On each footfall one of your black boots makes a clap on the stone. Then you're beside me. Our eyes meet, yours framed by the brightening sky behind. From what I can see your eyes are a little wet, a little tired, longish black lashes around a tile mosaic of white, green, brown, yellow, black.
I do not yet know you, but I have high hopes for our future.
"This seat taken?"
How absurd. Like you've read my mind, you ask the one question that I'd imagined someone would ask if they were to meet me right here, right now.
"Was saving it for you."
You sit down. There then stretches out a long silence, almost as if you have to catch up to me in the meditation of this place. I dare not utter a word. You don't wait longer than it takes for your mind to clear just a little, but you wait long enough. Then the sun emerges from behind the first layer of clouds.
During this interim I am calmer, much calmer, than I think possible. I am the pressure on my joints, I am the rock, the lake, I am you, but I am not me. When I find my hand suddenly curved around your far shoulder, I don't consider what I've done, because lakes don't consider. You fit your arm and hand on my left leg and knee.
If a certain cinematic feeling persists I don't notice, and if my heart beats a little faster I don't notice. And that's how we are when you first kiss me, there having been not more than a few words between us. Will the lake ever see you again? Most likely, but only time will tell, and the winter draws nearer.