The slow boats wait,
spring sun paints the water
with their hulls
and the slow boats wait.
Once transport royalty,
their narrow hulls
filled with providence,
now they simply
wait.
Leisure kings now,
lords of high days
and holidays,
they snail the canal
as days drift on.
There is no rush
to paint a different picture,
to rise from sleep,
disturb the ducks,
or churn the water
with a wake.
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