Seven meters an hour, top speed, pulling closer the edge of asphalt you cannot

see. Mizzling rain glistens your body stripped to the skin. You row,

row for your life in air thick with whirlpools of danger. I cannot look

at you without suffering your fragility. There reels from the morning

sky a piece of burnt orange paper. Death grazes among islands of turquoise.

You defy ordinary good sense. You defy death. You ask so little.

Godspeed, only, to the permeable horizon calling like harbor lights.

Articles by William North

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