Sunrise shards on a mirrorshine surface.
The snap-squeeze of his legs
Drives a wake through sun shimmer.
Unseen,
A wind-ripple moves in opposition.
A sudden too-deep bow catch
Wind-grip, wind-lift on stroke.
Heartpound angled suspension.
Imprisoned,
A god's plaything.
A memory calls:
"Don't let go of your blades!"
He sits the shell steady once more,
With backbend and legpush
He moves again.
Three.
Hard.
Pulls.
A mine-dump windshadow
Saves him.
The scull leaps forward.
The Sculler is free.
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