wind down through finger
lakes
skate the north rim of
Conesus
rattle through old little
towns
then past broken
houses and rough fields
lined with trees that hold
hunting
blinds
where drunk each
year
somebody shoots
wild knocking out
glass
open roofed
auto
the slap of
the flapping nylon
blue straps
holding the seventeen
foot
fiberglass flat water kayak
pull onto the dirt road
where
a sign says “boat
launch”
and tires find troughs
and pot holes
slow to a crawl
get down close to
water
that ripples
only
when the red bow
slides
gleaming into empty Hemlock
lake
and the black graphite
paddle
grips on the
back-stroke
the waist rotates
two hundred pounds
with
barely a twist
silent
only stone cliffs
small conifers
echoes of ducks
and paddle drip
ringlets
on
surface
of the morning sky
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