The Race

The Race

All that year, he rose,
Just after dawn broke
Light across the sky.
He took his shell to the river,
Laid it on the water,
And slipped quietly,
Effortlessly, into rowing.
Each day he grew
In strength, in confidence,
Each day his mind
A day closer to realizing
Competitive readiness.
The day of the race
He arrived early, ready.
He laid his shell on the water.
He eased into the race,
As though he was one with the race,
His oars, his arms become one.
He could see the finish line,
In his mind, before he saw it,
Just ahead of him. It was then
He saw, in a flash,
He shadow cross it, a second before him.
Philip Kuepper
A friend of mine, Philip Kuepper, is a poet who lives in Mystic, Connecticut. Among other things, he has written some poems about sculling. Above is one of them, which he kindly has allowed me to publish here. Many thanks, Philip!

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