Indestructible reveries relating to life on the canal, or on the river, perhaps derive from some identification with the good Huck. If the waterway curls around the hills and the trains have ceased to run, it is avian life and chatter one hears, calmative and pure. In a wherry skiff, 1976, from Ithaca to Galloo Island in Lake Ontario: I plied, a dutiful six miles per hour; sleeping on the snaky shores, or tween the seats mid gear. Finnegans wake a ripple merry soft, reeds and cows and swampy grasses verged the limit of a magickal craft. Afternoons and evenings turned to mornings. I love canals, and I feel safe there. No army of Iroquois doubtful arrow fling. I ate a Milky Way. Then
a butler and a chefthrew
old fish
remains
upon
me.
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