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I run along the river, again. The morning flows under my skin. The sun sketches relief in grey cells.

A grey heron settled down on a buoy, there are no rowers today. Swans meditate at the marina leaning wings on longing boats. I touch the tree. The last time I looked at the bark so thoroughly as a child. Light brown tenderness hears my world.

The grass is saturated of March, I do five squats and stretch out my hands on the shore. Two ducks have just woken up and wash their beaks. Fragrance of Corrib remind me a summer 2001 in Masuria.

Daffodils bloom in groups, and I’m just jumping over yellow heads, balancing feet on green. I peek at the heron, yet. He is looking out for the slender rowing boats. We both miss them.

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