by Kenneth Hada

At the back of the island where two streams meet
at sunset we come together and kiss slow the first
time, tenderly shivering in damp moist air, arms
around the other clutching upright the flyrods as
purple water presses against our legs, the rising
moon slipping from behind clouds the last thing I
saw before I closed my eyes to taste a timid ecstasy.
The smell of trout on my hands mingles with body
sweat and her tired fragrance, honeysuckle cleansing
beyond it all in the cusp of evening until we know
it is time to leave. Withdrawing, eyes lingering
in curiosity, we turn upstream and walk single file
all the way back across the river to the main land
to a cabin where others expect our return.

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