Always like this: the thunk of paddle on gunwale.
Lifted wood turns pond drip to ripples,
and the glide of the curved bow spears the surface
in a silent vee your pressed blade makes.
This is you alone, your body levering the boat
ahead, hull rolling with your tensed weight,
your hips pleased with the lean and lull of the shell
on clear water, the slow shift of the far-off shore.
In the bow, a bag of rock for balance. The surface
resists your sink with its flared palm, your float:
this delicate measure of spread and pressure.
Below your stroke, boulders sit deep in the green
murk, glacial remains dragged and dropped
with an age that makes you afraid. This is you
alone, skimming along the surface again
with the flexed effort your body allows, mere feet
from the cold underneath the lake freely shows.
This is you seeing the dark fish float
over the rock you fear, the salmon’s black back
still for a moment in the cold lake, the slack body,
hovering mid-water below your boat
before a gill-flare and a rippling fin tip you off
to the flicker of a swift single surge. You stare.
There’s just a rock, and this is you, adrift
with your lean and your look, your shadow,
the paddle, your stiff imitation.