At Bowman Lake

Her hair at Bowman Lake fell wet
rivulets tendrils coiled
her naked shoulder
and the sun
a dancing patina like golden fish leaping
entrapping her shimmering figure below the water

her erudite laughter from the lake's face sent
in peregrine loops
to a mountain cusp where white sheep leapt
where rocks in clacking chorus sometimes
come violent from skyscape's purchase
to pile into swill at her feet

heavenward we strode in pilgrimage
to quietly palaver
this lonely hour at the end of the world
drunk on pine bough and thick
opal whiskey
throat of the clean forest air
her shoulder muscles jostle under translucent skin
her swinging arm
spiraling like a wheelless spoke
her wet hair
cutting the mirror of early evening's
first constellations.

TA