A young maple.
My hand asleep between branch and trunk,
resting in the soft wooden echo
of the curves of your waist.
On the other side of the river,
you are picking raspberries—
filling an old camera bag.
Mid-span of the bridge between us,
two boys are working on a sack of sunflower seeds,
spitting the shells into the current below.
In the distance bees hum,
and cars hum,
a hum cicadas underground dream of joining.
The river shifts gears,
slows the exodus of seed husks—
a mad assembly line creating
something too far down stream
to make out on the static of the horizon.