1 June 2025

By Philip Kuepper

A still sleepy rower
accidentally bangs an oar
against the side of his shell.
The sound echoes across the river
and into the woods,
standing spruce, blue,
and impassive as it receives
the echoing, and echoing
that has negotiated with the quiet.
The rower yawns.
And for one blip on the radar
screen of time, he has a second
thought about his morning row.
He stretches his muscles.
He isn’t up for a row.
He is up for a row.
He slips his shell onto the river.
He settles in.
He sits.
He inhales,
exhales.
He grips hold the oars.
He lays the blades on the water.
He shrugs the shell forward
with one in-concert stroke.
As the woods watch,
the river becomes his.

(17 may 2025)