A journal of narrative writing.
From the Bow and Stern

for Kirsten We were kneeling in a cove, and while between the water and our knees was a canoe, layers of epoxy & fiber, above like a whistling bullet a black duck shot for the edge of the trees, which reached like any good trees beyond their edges; and there was a rhythm involving the dip and then the purchase of the blades, a hip-swivel and another dip & press of the wooden paddles’ blades; and we were thoughtless, minds reaching like branches reflected on dusklit water, as far down as up. No wind, and the clouds were loblollied — indigo, licorice. Soon there’d be a moon in this journey of stasis and motion, and as we drifted, laid the paddles askance gunwales, duck gone, we remembered a silence that hadn’t tried to be quiet or coy or colorless, in which even the darkness shone, raw as mist— a silence so simple that now the heron’s blear, the maple, lupine shoots, and alder rose in our eyes as though we’d never bear the same rain twice; and the moon was there, just there, further than where the duck had been, east & inward too, and we were breathing again, holding the paddles again, and with a softer touch, tasting lichen, the heady mellowness of birch.