This rowboat appears to be floating in some sort of bluesy dream scape.
Yet, there are flashes of brilliant color–beneath the hull and at the gunwale:
Autumn Blaze Valspar
Tucson Sun Yellow
Close to the hull are dabs of Burnt Umber and Conifer Green.
I can hear the wood creaking. There are no breezes. There are no oars.
The fisherman has disappeared. His gossamer line extends from the
bow, taut, clinging to my memory:
Sitting with my dad early in the morning in his rowboat. Anchored in a
central Minnesota lake. Silence. No wake. My childhood bladder
“Dad, I have to go bad!”
He hauls in his line. Silence. He hauls up the anchor. Silence. He rows
us to the shore.
I am relieved. This is too quiet a pursuit for a little girl like me.