We shut off the Evinrude. Our boat drifts, but there is no breeze at all to move the boat in any direction.
Canvas chairs on the rear deck.
Over-iced white russians; sweet biscuits with a mash of strawberries.
"Very interesting work has been done with both the bass saxophone and the soprano saxophone: Sidney Bechet, Steve Lacy, Morphine, much lamented."
"As solo instruments?"
"That, yes; also with violin. And piano."
We are smelling the wet woods and fields; the sun in the haze of sky toasts the water and the earth nearby, as if clouds of smoke were, shall we say, wrapping us in counterpanes of oak and affection.
"Nick got up. He was all right."
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