by Robert "Manfred" Harington
Cold shafts of steely sun, bouncing, flitting.
An expanse of calm —
An unbroken sheet of silky ripples.
A branch snaps —
The rush of power as opposites meet —
Wood on water —
Sweat tingling on the brows of the eight —
A rhythmic beat;
Fierce yet bow to stern glides swiftly,
Not piercing yet parting the cool grey water:
The river once more in gentle equilibrium with the solitary meadow.