A Fluted Hull

I took the train uptown and walked over to the wide granite basin of Conservatory Water. The open pond was quiet, its dark surface resting flat as polished slate. On the stone coping lay a broad, stiff sycamore leaf and a fallen pine twig. Crouching low, I threaded the twig through the leaf's primary rib, pinning the curled lobes into a taut, geometric hull. I stepped down onto the granite shelf and lowered the craft into the water, giving its stern one calm, deliberate nudge. The vessel held its balance, cutting a singular, unbroken wake straight toward the open water.