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IN A NET OF BLUE AND GOLD When the moored boat lifts, for its moment, out of the water like a small cloud— this is when I understand. It floats there, defying the stillness to break, its white hull doubled on the surface smooth as glass. A minor miracle, utterly purposeless. Even the bird on the bow-line takes it in stride, barely shifting his weight before resuming whatever musing it is birds do; and the fish continue their placid, midday truce with the world, suspended a few feet below. I catch their gleam, the jeweled, reflecting scales, small dragons guarding common enough treasure. And wonder how, bound to each other as we are in a net of blue and gold, we fail so often, in such ordinary ways. 3 ...

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