Good where we’ve been
Good where we’re going
—American Indian song 

  Early morning rain leaves a damp sheen on the woods. First
leaf-fall like thin wet leather layers the road. Steam rises from
pavement warm all night.
   The beach is abandoned and calm, the outsized boats
moored on the river still sleeping off their hangovers. As we
wade out, minnows scatter like paint from a shaken brush.
Waist-deep, I bend for an empty mussel shell shining like a
silver butterfly.
   It’s heaven to stretch one’s body within the long body of
the river, to plunge hands one after the other in her substance
while being held in her immense cupped hands. Heaven to
feel the muscles of one’s shoulders extend then contract like 
the mussel shell’s hinge, opening and closing. Heaven to
fancy one’s ankles trailing off in fins. Heaven for the skin to
receive the current’s full-length caress, heaven for the eyes to
catch the eagle flying over bright water toward water shaded 
by eastern hills the sun has not yet climbed.
   And it is beautiful afterwards to stride dripping onto
the sand, to stand here with you, my hand searching your
river-slicked back for the warm place behind your heart,
and to watch the hazy sun-shafts among the dark trees find
trembling drops that flash gold like daytime fireflies.
   The fair is over. We’ve grieved the passing of summer, and
still the world comes to us as we move, unexpectedly, one
yellow leaf, one rain-diamonded spider web, one insect hum
at a time. We are still walking from the good, toward the
good one step at a time.