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For much of the day (and those to follow), your hands rotate along with torso and paddle, stroke after stroke. One motion, many moving parts. How many revolutions per mile the sum of the paddle’s dip, purchase, uplift, reach, and then another, and so on. Little adjustments, conscious sometimes, mostly not. The neck cranes as the gaze shifts. Edges of daydream in tune, somehow, as if traversing the swirls off the stern line. You take another stroke or you don’t and just drift, see bugs in sunlight, shadows reaching where they reach.
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—Thorpe Moeckel,
excerpt from “Low Water, Loose Stone”
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