Poetic Rowing

Water’s flat. Seventy-six degrees. No wind. All good… for now

But it’s 3:45 AM. Quiet, and the bed is warm. Warmth kills you.

It’s either sweat or rust. Steel or rot. Your call.

Feet hit concrete. Truth bites. Bones wake.

Welcome to the grind. The war starts here. In the dark.

Take the oars. Earn your air.

—anonymous rower One of us