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
which was further away when I was a boy
