8:19) chris abraham 29-SEP-97 0:02

The blue plastic kayaks are perfect percussion instruments. The nudging of a log, the tap of the oars, the lapping of the cool morning waters. I usually sleep late. I usually wait until the morning is long past and the day has bugun and has moved closer to evening than the crack of anything. But the morning haze. Is it fog? It shrouds the river. The water fowl come to sight in grand grey silhouettes. the icy dense humid air swallows the songs. makes morning even earlier.

The yellow of fog lamps. The hong of a horn. The wail of a siren. Only these abominations remind me of rush hour.

These and the bloated grey carp, their bellies cut and rotted, bobbing along with the current. The knives cutting, the singles pass. I am not ever certain if the racing shells are physical or am I seeing things. They never make any noise. When I rowed in an eight, there was grunting, there was a coxwain and a cox box and a coach in a skiff and the clank of the oar in the oarlock.

But not these singles. These knives. They are to electric cars as eight man crews, the sweeps, are to the inefficient inline eights of the old american gas guzzlers. Faster, yes, but an inelegant gracelessness.