With the air so still it seems asleep, what
equation moves the boat upon the water,
heavy as it is with me? The lake takes
nothing it is not given, and so the boat
scuds further from the grassy shore.
The eddies and curls of currents made by fish
and the tilting, spinning earth are the true captains
now, the canoe enslaved to their minute forces.
I lean back and look up. Clouds
like a raincoat. Sky like a message home.
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