Wearing only moonglow
and the fire’s final shawls of smoke,
she made her way from the tent
at 2 a.m., then squatted to pee,
and the heavenly light showed me everything:
its cool tongues of silver lapping mountain
stones and the never-motionless leaves
of aspens, licking her back, her hips,
haunches, and more, illuminating even the deep
green eyes of whatever animal it was
that watched her from the forest then—
a deer, I believed, and still believe,
though I confess I did not rise that night
to make sure, did not shine my light or murmur
but waited, letting my head
as she returned settle slowly back
down to the pillow made of my clothes
and welcomed her shivering
back into the tent, from which
I had sworn I would not look.