The boat remembers how to travel.
It rests where water left it at dawn.
A rope hangs loose between the bow and timber;
the creek follows its old paths.
I watch the channels taking silver,
each bend receiving water it cannot keep.
The mud holds yesterday in footprints.
The reeds lean over what the shells conceal.
No hand can hurry water inland.
No wish can lift the hull.
The tide must reach the weight it means to carry;
the channel must be open, not just full.
There is a difference between pause and absence.
The bench still offers somewhere dry.
The oarlock waits without inventing motion.
A cloud moves through the boat's reflected sky.
I leave the rope room for the rising.
I check the knot, then step away.
To hold a thing is not to hold it motionless;
the water teaches through its rise.
Soon wood will gently lift from mud.
The reeds will mark a shoreline farther in.
What seemed a stranded shape becomes a vessel
when depth returns beneath its skin.
Until then, light collects along the channels.
The boat stays where the rope allows.
One silver thread approaches, then another.
The morning reaches toward the bow.
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