17 March 2024

By Philip Kuepper

Rowers shrug their muscles
against the tide.
They are bodies of raw effort,
their arms hewn limbs of oak,
and their legs.
They are making love with the river.
It is their nature,
and the nature of the river.
Neither rowers or river know separation.
They climbed aboard their boat,
settled in place,
locked oars in place,
set out.
The river waited
to receive them.
All there was then
was pure act.

(3 March 2024)