Two Thousand Years after the First Canoes Broke the Surface

While rowing with the crew team
each day after final bell had rung,
I discovered the greatest passing of time
that I have known:
each afternoon, the Chippewa River
pulled our boats farther
away from the docks, and me with them,
the water teaching us each breath
anew. When it rained
and the sky fell to pieces in the water,
I watched the reflection of the shore,
the way trees bent
when fractured by raindrops.
One time I fell asleep
in the boathouse attic.
 
Among the broken equipment and blankets,
I dreamt that,
as I helped carry a boat to the dock,
my arm caught on the metal edge
and my skin split open.
Out of the cut came
not blood
but Chippewa river water
glistening in the sunlight.