Winter Repairs

The boat is upside down beside the shed, its flaking blue turned up toward the rain. All summer we had heard the loosened plank knock softly when a wave passed underneath. Now, working in the lee, you draw the plane toward you. A curl of cedar clears the blade and springs against your sleeve. I hold the lamp. The daylight has withdrawn behind the hill. You fit the strip, then lift it out again. A little more must come away. The gap is scarcely wide enough to take a nail, but water has the patience to get in. Across the yard, the gutter overflows. We hear it strike the bottom of a pail. You run your thumb along the fresh-cut edge, then place the fitted wood into my hands. I used to think the winter took our boat. I watched the empty mooring from the road and counted out the months until the spring. Tonight I brush the shavings from the hull. One clings beneath a rib. I leave it there, a pale, tight spiral in the lantern light, where, months from now, the water's lifted weight will press against the work we did on land.