I am coming down into the grass blades bending beneath my feet posture perfect eyes fixed ahead out into the cool of the evening and moving toward a new perfect lake. Thunder shakes the ridges while splats of rain smack the back of my neck. But the skiff crosses without ripples without extending new possibilities. It is the passage of harm the rotted wood of the reaper boatman and within this cool morning. My thoughts are serene while the weathered disposition tosses wild and unkempt around, aware of the idea of the boat's position in, but untouched by, the water.