Their canoe zigzagged as a snake. They enjoyed, splashing water. They were bold before the maelstrom. ‘Those days are gone, dear.’ He whispers, and she nods. Their canoe floats on the silver wavelets. They stare at a local gym’s advertising flex-board with pictures of skinned chickens in various poses to attract youngsters. Libraries have turned desolate cemeteries. Muscles of minds decay. She reads aloud Bacon, ‘Reading maketh a Full Man.’ A smile radiates his wizened visage while paddling. Speed and sound of new generation boats scare them. Their canoe shivers. Now they block their nostrils. Fanaticism and intolerance are more stinky than the rotten coconut shells. They find around muddy-red. ‘