Paddles beneath shadows of the world's smallest suspension bridge, we glide between the caissons out onto calm water that mirrors a boat full of children. As we circle the island where ducks nest, we forget the click of meters. Sun on our faces closes our eyes as we float back to lands where little wonders excited us, where we dreamed of clumsy ducklings becoming swans. The slow wake of our boat turns us towards the bridge which links us to Old Boston, and we ignore buildings whose tall glass can't shadow ripples from our swanboat, circling lazy as a cloud. The cool shadow of the bridge changes us back. We dock, look at our watches, throw out the tickets, small passports to stillness.