The outsides of my knees are bruised and my fingers alight there, addicted to the sweet soreness colored purple-black.

These are the most gentle bruises I have ever had.

They are a canoe ride in Maine, at twilight:

They are the mountains rising before us, turning from green to darkest green to blue. They are the sky, dappling in the art of star-making.

They are the sides of the canoe, impressed upon me like a blessing.

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