The canoes all spoon together in their sleep. They dream of children discovering the fragility of water. They dream of young men paddling grids of ambition across old lakes which become new with intense effort. They dream of girls about to join the cult of resignation, but resisting right up unto the day the oaths are made.
The dandelions don't move, but they seem like they are moving in constant arabesques at the whim of the sunlit breezes.
I would lie down among the canoes, and wake them to tell me their stories.
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