The whirls were twisting in patterns
as they touched beyond the gunnel.
A paddle turns the world beneath
me, leaving stillness, leaving land.
Sweeping seaweed from my blade,
I glide through misty vastness
Leaving bounded space behind,
shedding moorings and the coast.
I was gliding there in a
green canoe. I was gliding along.
I was gliding like a hockey
puck pushed, smooth black water shifting
to blue, with the Sun peaking
just below the needled fir.
Thinking of my stroke beneath,
a feathered open row.
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