Through the glass,
My paddle passes.
Breaking gently into tiny pieces,
Rapidly repairing placidity.
Awkwardly rhythmic row after another,
Propels me toward my destination of non-specificity.
The depth of the water below varies,
As time and distance pass.
And my fear is directly correlated with that depth,
Yet the fear is thrilling…
The heat of the sun,
The wayward frigid splashing from my paddle,
Balance my experience beautifully.
October kayak in Nevada, upon Lake Mead.
With mountains cradling crisp clear waters,
Sets my spirit free…