Rowing on Lake Mendota

The plump at the catch. The common exhalation.
The pull, feather, and glide. The timing. The trust
to speed backwards, to row in unison, each a mirror
of each squared oar pushing against the water again
and again, to be one boat in the amphitheater

of the nearby shore where the last light of sunset
is pink sinking over deep trees. Muscular memory.
The pause when the coxwain calls "Weigh enough!"
Four balancing oars. We float together and overhead
ducks stream from the crescent moon.

Copyright © 2004 Aliki Barnstone All rights reserved
from Blue Earth
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission