16 April 2023

By Philip Kuepper

Early, on this grey and silver
morning, women row
the river at Mystic.
They sit their shell like mystics.
They are at rest, intent
on what their cox is saying.
The stroke has turned
to look over her right shoulder.
Their shell is the only visible traffic
on the fifth day of spring.
Rain has been forecast. And intermittent
drops have shattered against my windshield
as I drive alongside the river,
to the library through the grey
and silver hour, Saturday.
That it is Saturday
it is appropriate they row.
I can’t explain why appropriate.
I simply sense it.
There they are,
holding the river to its promise
that it would run, liquid,
for their workout.

(25 March 2023)