Sculling   So there I was, gliding right along, minding my own business, and instead of time there was rhythm and the way ahead was blind, just drive, recover, catch (it’s not like I’m dreaming, just con-cen-tra-ting) — drive, recover, catch . . . unhurried, steady, sure, the river receding astern . . . mile five, mile six . . . the oars dimpling the water, purely fluid, free, the forest breathing, the trees undulating like sea grass, whispers, bird songs, bright green arias of sunshine and teasing hints of more, forever more. . . . I heard them before I saw them, divers with scuba gear, grappling hooks. So, they said, it’s you.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont August 2013