Diffidently, so as not to disturb the silence,
I dip dripping paddles into the distorted image
of blue-broken green above my head,
each quiet splash sending my little vessel
flying across this peaceful mirror sky.

Beneath the moss-draped canopy, all is still,
heat-oppressed and thick with clinging moisture while
reed-throated and washboard-legged insects
spill their lullabies into the laden air
just for my thin-blooded heart to hear.

Before me stretches dark mystery,
possibly shallow, possibly deeper than I imagine,
murky liquid hiding the algae-cursed treasure
of some forgotten Spanish explorer, to whom
these still waters would have seemed so alien.

To me, this place is as familiar as the distant peals
of treble laughter that awaken memories
of my not-so-distant past, more simple and refreshing
than the drops sliding down the browning skin
of my arms as I work to pull myself forward.