Venice (-52 Days-)

the canal was quiet and nearly still as we drifted patiently along the surface
of the salty smelling water, which splashed in turn up against the side of the gondola
tiny droplets of the cool, summer liquid sprinkling the inside of the boat-like swimmer
which carried us with unprotesting ease, and rocked steadily back and forth with every pierce
of the boatman’s oar into the dark water beneath
where it would then ripple like a stone’s throw into an untouched pond, then with gentle strength
would he glide the wooden stick through the canal
and send the lengthy gondola sailing along; effortlessly it seemed to move us
and I could not help but lean over its pointed bow, extending my fingertips to graze the cool,
wet surface of the water, and see the uncertain fish rapidly turn at the threat of my hand
and swim in another direction, wishing they could see what I could
and the sweet, melodic voice of the boatman rang strongly through the winding canal
as he sang the tunes of his only language, music of old, and of his home
music that told the tales of ancient, and unforgotten chronicles, and though we could not
interpret his words enough to grasp their meaning
we listened and breathed in the beauty of rising and falling melodies, the ascension
of the aging voice that once chimed with youth
we listened
and drifted away.