Somewhere, blackberries are ripe,
seasoned flesh perfected for a timely fall
in a bramble full of arches. A doe parts mist,
leading her faun to the river, and a woman
wakes to the largeness. Without clothes
she slips from her tent, grabs
a towel from a branch curved
above the fire circle. Dodging nettles,
she heads to the river, knee deep in Turk's
cap lilies and smartweed. A heron waits.
Otters roll near the shore. Her plunge explodes
the morning. When her head surfaces,
she smells wild rose in bloom, then swims
away the chill. She leaves the water, lays
her towel on a craggy beach and sits.
Strung between shiver and tickle,
sun threads beads from her nipple.