Venetian

The sun hits my face in the quiet breeze of the cool morning. the rays dance on the canal water like sardines in the bottom of the ship. The sea weed is like the hair of Triton's daughters. I pull my sunglasses down and settle into my boat, tossing the damp rope, soaked with dew, into the bottom as I push off. In front of my boat the water parts silently--I don't want to disturb the silence of the morning--the birds hush themselves, the men at the market are smoking cigarrettes, soaking in the morning stillness before jumping into their day. I lean back--the cool breeze rustles my hair, and the sun beams down on my face. Can't hold out anymore or I'm just a man sitting in a boat. I pull the engine cord and hear the monster growl to life, like a grizzly after hibernation. The seabirds answer by cackling back and the men in the market have begun shouting their cooperative cries as they heave goods from stocked ships to bridges and docks. Venetians are born with sealegs--feeling the palpitations of prairies and mountains like a drumroll--Venetians live the syncopated rhythm of the water, building the swelling, uneven rhythms into our speec, our meandering streets, out arched bridges, and feeling the sharp, militant rhythms of life ever else.