The Resting Oar

A heavy wooden oar hung crooked across the lower crossbeam of the canoe rack. I stood still in the dark grass, watching it tilt slightly toward the pebbles below. Moving up to the timber frame, I gripped the thick ash shaft with both hands. It was cold and damp with lake mist. I hoisted the blade with a steady heave, guiding the flat grain back into its carved resting notch on the beam. With a dull thud, it settled level and still against the wood. I patted the sturdy timber once, satisfied it would not slip again tonight.