Sundays I slip through the dozing streets at dawn, down to the boat house by the river. The owner, brisk and abrupt, not unkind, takes my card. I, with the skin on my back warm from the sun, my feet cold in the slosh of water in the canoe, watch the jeweled line of drops from my paddle. The bridge looks closer than it is; the arches flame in the light. The piers are smooth with strength, green under the waterline, the water purling clean around the base, and all in red the words, "Paula, I love you." Paula, if you're reading this, I was stroking up the river, a solitary voyager, wishing you were there.