I read about the crossing of the river by ferry. How, as we wait, we are a part of what is on this bank--the people in their jeans, their sandals, the trees giving shade, the coffee shop--and don't think about the other side which we can barely see in the distance. How once on the ferry, the bank gradually disappears. It slowly loses meaning, and during the crossing, the other bank as yet has no meaning.

No time. No expectation. Being.

There is only the boat, and the river.




In Recuerdo, Edna St. Vincent Millay, tired and merry, spends all night on a ferry, eating pears.