Amy Motson

Owls in the Attic

“Do you see that?” Jules says over her shoulder. She is pointing to a spot on the shore line where an old, tattered Boston whaler is tied up to an equally weathered dock. I dip my paddle into the cloudy water; pulling the canoe another length forward. Jules had stopped paddling a few moments before to squint curiously at the array of houses, cottages, and shacks that were scattered along this particular stretch of coastline. I rest my paddle across my lap; taking a long swig of the tepid beer I had poured into my water bottle before we had set sail. With a sigh, I direct my attention to where Jules is looking. The glare on the water causes me to squint too.