Once they moored a heavy boat to the upstream Erie riverside; reeled a vessel out on a hawser through tough water above the Falls, that stretch of race and tumble, slew and chew of flow, to a point where no fight back, paddle, or engine race, could top the edge’s pull. There, the rope would either hold while they winched it in, or fray and break; the vessel be lost. I urgently scan this muscular scene. Is the spot just there, in white roughness? Or there, by blown budding trees on islands where birds nest, secure; oblivious? Olivia Byard Proximity…
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