~ Paddler Poetry ~
Rolling sheets of pitch black velvet
Trimmed with a dash of shining lace.
A hungry blade into the current
I choose my line; I find my place.
Rich clouds that creep across the sky
And pine-streaked banks careening by.
The curtained spray that beads my face.
We hunt for holes in which to play
Main channel burgers make my day
And all our fears we must embrace.
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