the moon is a big white circle on the lake,

reflected in ribbons as the wind

pushes little tides from west to east.

here in the mountains the owls are quiet

but persistent, their muted calls 

quieting the patter in the underbrush. 

ripples push up against the dock

one at a time, a constant rhythm

against the pillars and the lonely red canoe.

it smells like pine, here.

the wind is cold and raises goose bumps

on bare thighs, slicing through the summer heat

as night sinks into the valley.

the moon is a big white circle on the lake,

your heart-shaped face just as pale and quiet

as the pale reflections it captures. 

i can't quite see past my eyelashes, so it's good

that your heart beats so loud

here under the trees, it keeps me connected

to your body, and your heat.