Their blades lift up, neat, quick, out of the water,

Like steely knives rotating at crisp ninety degrees,

A pistol's action slipping, sinking into place, as water drips

From their edges back into the river. These nameless rowers

Curve their bodies in unison around those endless oars,

Creep up with aching precision, blades parallel now,

A breath or two above the water's surface, suspended

For less than a nanosecond until that roll, drop, and push,

Every nerve firing, every muscle responding in sudden explosion.

They've returned every year to this river for close to two centuries,

Women, men, young centurions bent to that single task of winning.

They try and try and try again, each morning, stumbling out

To the dark water's edge long before daylight, still half-asleep,

A fall chill spreading hoarfrost across the docks,

Gold, red, green and brown leaves floating downstream.

Their oars rise up, disappear into a still-black sky as they climb

Like pumas into sleek, long shells, ready to empty their hearts.

Rowing up river, they think of nothing but that steady climb up the slide,

Calloused hands reaching like talons for prey, oars turning to wings,

Arms spreading wide at the catch, legs driving backwards,

Bodies now cannon balls, boats sudden lances shooting into the dawn.