Droplets hopped inside their perfect circles on the waves.
Then it all thrashed down in sheets
and drummed up a mist above the river:
a real rain for the second time in a week, and rare.
The sodden fog thickened and formed a bridge
to the island where not all of the foreigners live.
At the officers’ club on the opposite shore
a team of ten drenched rowers
skipped up the slippery slats of the ramp
to the boathouse.
Fumbling along with the long boat and oars,
the red-faced coaches cursed under their shawls.
Even while the wind was hurling its arrows,
my personal heroes
swept out in the brightly painted, tipping wooden boats
to stand barefoot on the stern and let the nets tumble in.