Reading in the dark

in the middle of the forest.

Launching into the world

at almost-seventeen.

Heading home

along with the moon. Cold for the end of August, but entrancing.

Two days ago,

and I can still feel this light in my body.

Every year

it's like this for at least a couple of hours.

The river remembered

is always backlit and swift.

We kept looking for river otters

 and, one morning, we saw them swim to the little island right across from our campsite.

Whenever I think about summer,

I seem to think about water: waves in North Carolina, the bright blue green of the river, 

a morning spent in a canoe on the Columbia slough, the uneven shimmer of moon on the sea. 

The slur and rush of water, the humidity in the air back east, the first smell of the sea 

when I open the car door and push out into the wind, the perfection of finding 

a break in the riverbank--a place to finally step into the water.

Missing the Atlantic

and the summer is speeding by me.  Yet, last night I sat outside with a friend and the wind was warm and the stars came out and the hours slowed down and opened outward.