The Rowboat

Thanks for leaving that rowboat
beside the little, hidden lake
in the north woods of Minnesota.
Steve and I found it flipped-over
with two mismatched paddles
underneath. We turned it
and dragged it to the water.
It floated, so we paddled it out.
Lifting and pulling, we talked
about the years, how time had worked
us, how we’d become easier
on people, easier on ourselves.
We talked about love, a boat
that gets you there or gets swamped.
We talked about this earth—
the forest, the lake, animals we’d seen
and ones we’d only imagined.
Then we saw it and stopped:
something was swimming head-up
near the shore, swimming toward us.
We sat utterly still—paddles up, dripping—
as we watched its undulant body
trailed by a soft V of ripples unzipping the sky.
Minutes passed as it passed near, then away,
then out of sight.  We decided it was an otter,
though it might have been a mink,
or something else. The whole morning
had the feel of a dream or folktale:
a little lake concealed in the woods,
an abandoned boat, the words we spoke,
the sudden apparition of an otter.
Back on shore, we dragged the boat
to where we’d found it, turned it over,
and tucked the paddles underneath.
I hope you don’t mind that we borrowed it.

Matthew Murrey is the author of the poetry collection Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). His poems can be found in The Shore, Whale Road Review, EcoTheo Review, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for 21 years. He lives in Urbana, IL, and his website is at https://www.matthewmurrey.net/

Published October 15 2023