Nipples hard
in the chill dusk air,
she stood hip-deep in the Mad River,
pointing as a Great Blue Heron
lifted ungainly from the riffle above
and flew downstream toward the mouth.
We made love all night on the shore,
eager with each other, wild,
fierce and sweet
in those first permissions,
stunned, possessed.
Married, three children,
a ranch above the river,
still able to delight each other with who we were–
that’s all I ever really wanted.
Half-sunken, half-emerged,
she points as the Heron flies, as its shadow
folds with the copper shadows of nightfall.
I build a fire on the bank and wait.
Tired, silent, the children go down
and wash their faces in the river.