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Dove gray. The morning sky is dove gray, the streets of Bayfield glistening with early rain reflecting storefront lights as I make the five-block drive to the dock debating: should I untie the Little Dipper and head out despite the rain? Or, crawl back in bed.
There is a glimmer of pink on the calm water rising in the east like an invitation. The droplets on the windshield seem to spell out words, the “syllables of water” as poet Conrad Aiken has call them, a poem written in water. I slip the lines, clear the break wall, and head into the islands in the rain.
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