The scents of fresh fruit
and rotting leaves
are in the air, mixed with salt
from the brackish Hudson
on a Saturday morning.
It's the earliest I've been
at the river's edge
in too long.
Sensations feel joyfully familiar
and sting simultaneously
until the boat approaches
pulls up onto the beach
sand crunching audibly
beneath its bow.
The skipper I've missed grins
and a thin, yet capable hand
reaches out to pull me aboard
the lowly angled sun in my eyes
blinding me temporarily
as I accept what's meant to be.
A dozen men behind me
lift their tools and prepare
to embark upon what's ours again.
I fall in love
with all of it
as the boat engine rumbles
and we approach
whatever comes next
together.
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