Motor through the channel; from Sawmill over to Irish,
and gather with the others, who come to relax there.
Sit idle on the waters, your rear blocking out the east,
and look towards tree-lined horizons where the sun starts to dip
its head towards western terrain, colors emerge in full.
Potent hues of purple and orange paint the greying sky;
fumes from running burn barrels tumble to senses.
Itching our eyes and smelling like burnt rust;
we take a drink of beer—like nothing ever happened
and joke to a stranger on a nearby boat.
All’s the same on irish.
when the sun starts to set.