Tuesday, October 31


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In Renaissance music, a canon is a staggered imitation, like the child's song, "Row, Row, Row, Your Boat." I saw the striations in this boat's bottom and found the pattern haunting. See how they repeat, and stagger over one another? This thing went over the same rocks - again, again and again. Or were they rocks? Maybe roots? Maybe some of the other hard mystery things that your feet find beneath the muddy surface of a lake. Whatever...
This wrinkling old buddy aged along with its family, and now it's upended awaiting what? Next summer? The kids who've grown and won't be back? Its aging friends who found it so many years ago and paddled it through memories? It's a soft thing that ground against the glacial rocks of these ancient mountains. Will it get one more round in the canon of its life? Did it win? Are warm memories... winning?

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