He rows through silence, calm and wide,

With forests leaning either side,

A golden coat, the sky turned gray—

The world forgot, he drifts away.

The ripples hum a hollow tune,

A lullaby beneath the moon,

And every splash against the wood

Becomes a thought misunderstood.

No compass, map, or written plan,

Just heart and hand, the oar, the man.

He isn’t lost—he seeks the sound

Of voices only lakes have found.

Perhaps he runs, perhaps he stays,

Perhaps the water knows his ways,

For in that stillness, wild and true,

He floats beyond what time once knew.

A fleeting life, a fleeting view—

The man, alone, in the red canoe.