Poetic Rowing

In sleep, he still hears it— half… half… three-quarters… full. The slide. The breath. The catch.

On his dying bed, they gather—not family, but ghosts of old races, faces sunburned and half-forgotten, hands still blistered, still proud.

He hears the coxswain’s bark, the creak of oarlocks, the silent vow of eight men who swore nothing but never stopped showing up.

And just before the last breath— he swears he feels the set.

—anonymous rower One of us