Standing still my eyes look upriver, as the swan flies above another
The second floating leisurely behind the first, the immense wingspan
Allowing it to glide with alarming gracefulness through silky water.
A steady rhythm and pace coming through the fog, and the
Dew-moistened dock soaks the soles of my feet. The boathouse
Stands alone --my sanctuary -- calming my aching body.
Boats floating like pods, suspended in time and space, each bay
Filled with boats eager to be taken down in the solitude
Of an early fall morning.
The swans soar closer and closer. I grasp the knowledge:
No swan could have such a wingspan!
The swan is a boat, and only one; the second:
A reflection on the glass like water. Only oars propelling the boat.
The once steady rhythm, now the strokes of the rower.
As daylight breaks, the once abandoned boathouse
Becomes the heart of activity as rowers and coaches arrive.
The steps of the rowers echo against the empty bays, once packed full.
My dock becomes occupied by souls other than mine, where rowers nestle boats
into the water no longer like glass, but more the ocean chop of a wave.
Like a mother putting her baby to crib, Softly-safely-serenely:
Do no harm.
The bitter tang of the fall air fills my lungs. I try to taste
The last lingering hint of summer. But the rowers launch their boats;
And the coaches set off, and the stillness of the boathouse
Briefly disturbed has now returned to my peaceful sanctuary.
The weather is cold and crisp, and the echo of cars on the parkway
Is just starting. The sun rises above the river. My alarm buzzes.
Off to another practice, as peaceful as my dream.