Weak Coffee

They stood on the dock, submerged three inches, as the sun tipped up over the treetops. Shivering. Setting their brown-stained mugs down, they slid into the canoe. And pushed it adrift.

Fish. Frogs. Flies still heavy with dew.

Reeds thinning and the lake widening.

Paddles dipping and drawing, movement matched to their breathing. The sun high enough now to reflect, skim the water’s surface so that they travelled, encompassed with golden light.

Later that afternoon, they huddled under heavy blankets, rubbing their red skin, soaked socks and pants and shirts hanging haphazardly in the shower and outside on the line.


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