Poetic Rowing

For the 4 a.m. floor-creak curses, the fumbled gear, your muffled “Why?” in the dark.

For washing the dead-stink of the river, enduring our sore pride, for not getting it— this love for a race we mostly lose— and letting us go anyway.

You didn’t choose the oars. You chose us. And for that, we owe you everything.