The flowage's sky was a mattress full of tufted grey stuffing, the flocks of birds black stitches against the fluff. It was one of those mornings on the water where the day has not yet made up its mind whether to be sunny or rainy. The sky, argumentative with itself, flashed blue through the holes in the cloud-mattress.
Each dip of the kayak paddle sent intersecting circles of water perpetually spreading in the wake of the narrow craft. It sat lightly on the water, cleaning gliding atop the surface like a waterbug.
Despite the profusion of green, the flowage looked deceptively dull and empty. The progression of the kayak sent a crane airborne, an osprey dropped from its perch and screeched its displeasure at the disturbance.
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