Seven White Swans

The water was smooth — shiny like a mirror. The sun was descending — a half-hour or so above the tree tops. A breeze blew over the water, making tolerable the end of what was a 100+ degree day.

Two kilometers upstream to Redbud Isle. The sun set behind the hills. Turn the shell around and drift for a while in the swift current. Gatorade. Two kilometers back — this time with the flow.

Nearing the bridge, I passed thru a regatta of seven white swans. They know these boats, so they confidently moved out of the way, just barely beyond oars' reach.

Seven white swans swimming — five on my left, two on my right. They looked at me. I looked at them. We didn't say a word. Then I continued my rowing and they continued their swimming. And before long, the day was done.

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