The Crimson crews
slid the sinuous
Charles, slid the liquid,
its skin the color of mackerel.
East of the crews, the towers
of Boston pierced
the Brahman sky,
while trees, schooled
along the river, read their Emerson.
It was a transcendental moment.
The crews pulled hard,
did not once break stroke.
They broke the back of the river,
their shells become its spine.
The way they rowed was electric.
They were rowing toward transcendence.
(5 June 2017)