When we were young girls and swam naked in Turkey Lake we were like animals: our legs were thickly furred. We took the trees’ rustling for a sign of their watching. Even the limestone drooled from its mouth-cracks.
But then I got real: it was only lake-ledges, dripping— rainwater, sweat of moss, and dew. Maybe a man hid behind a birch’s pale skin and I saw him, once. The rest, my ego running wild.
Still, it’s the roundabout way that I took to the island that is Indian land, on whose shore I lay down without my shirt. This is years from the lake, and the water is salt when a rockslide clatters off the bluff.
Make the clatter a sign of the watchers come forward— in the calm that comes after, I can hear their feet. But the trees have long since surrendered their trench coats and gone back to being simple trees.
First thought: I’ve grown old, second thought is the cops but I keep my eyes closed to stall their skirmish over me. Time clicks like their footsteps as they come close— until a musty breath whelms down my face.
Now hold it there, freeze-frame, while I look up at the sun corona-ing a mule deer’s chin. Chewing some foxgrass, regarding me only because on this wild shore I am strange. |
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