I had a
dream about my
mother last night; we were swimming among the
rocks. Later in the day I pedaled to Denny Blaine.
Precognition or self-fulfilling prophecy? The thing I miss most about the
the rhythm of rebirth, the saline pulse of
the womb the same color as eyes closed on a sunny day. Here at the lake I'm
grateful for motorboat wakes--they send sets of small waves queefing along
the concrete slabs meant to protect the beach, and through that rhythm, the
insistent repetition, I am released.