The sharp scent of chlorine winds its way to my nostril.
It’s not a gentle greeting, nothing here is.
But, I know this choreography well
the scent is my first eight counts
I slide in between the lane markers and push off
a little jerky at first, then before long my swag is back:
I slice the water, washing away all thought.
In the silence of the rhythm, I find myself,
confidently charging towards the finish line,
legs powerful behind me,
sturdy arms paddling forward
And in the movement, gliding through the light blue ripples,