by Joseph Parslow
Sitting in the canoe I can hear the pond fish jump up out of their dark lagoon as if gaining momentum for a terrible dive from which they have no intention of returning. The moon glistens along the wet edges of the boat where my paddles, slipping from these old man's hands, have cast up tiny drops of water. I stop, lean back in the craft as it drifts, and look up to the stars. Sparse clouds drift through space and in them I see the forms of old men from beneath; they lean back and listen to the world under them, marvel at the stars above them. Moonlight glistens at the edges of every one. I close my eyes, roll my back along the wet edge, and tumble my bald head backward into the quiet splash of a terrible dive.
Joseph Parslow writes from a very small room in Albany, New York. He has travelled to 18 countries, consumed both wild boar and reindeer, and has lived on a boat. He is the editor of the Holy Cuspidor.