Sport 35: Winter 2007
The black surface rustles with an oar's draw
as you pull the boat across Monowai
which could mean single-water in some flawed
etymology. I don't have to try
too hard to know this as the monolake
when the slate sky sits so tightly on the
hostile hills around us and our small wake
is all that breaks the hermetic water.
Within a day we'll be among the thick
wet moss and violent trees. A clearing,
so to speak. Let me tell you now: that trick
of believing nothing? It's worth nothing
once the cold turns in on you and the small
birds' onyx eyes fall dumbly on it all.