He stood at the end of the dock
That stretched into the bay.
He inhaled, deeply, the morning,
Filling his lungs with light.
In his mind he rowed the race
He was to row that afternoon.
Already in his bones he could feel
The rhythm of the coxswain’s call.
Already he could see the shadows
Of his teammates gathering.
He was in the race to row.
To row was to be.
In his blood the race never ceased.