The water was further away when I was a boy and the land it was much longer jutting out into Sacandaga like the lone remaining tooth in the smile of an old tannery worker
Now, the tooth worn away by years of spring waves and thick winter ice, the land is more a nub than a point
but many things are the same
the early morning call of a bird through fog a fish splashing through his sky to ours then returning to his car doors and the sounds of the marina coming alive the unsyncopated drum beat of coolers and tackle boxes being dropped into an aluminum rowboat then strained sounds as an outboard motor pushes its load through the water