Your hand on the oar is enough for me to think of love's migration from the intemperate heart to halcyon soul. You point to a kingfisher, whose eggs are laid on fish bones. The fish are fin to the fisher's crest. On a rocky beach, a killdeer keens, orange-vested children pull up canoes, camp smoke nests on the leafy water. You take my hand and call it wing.
Sunlight is reborn in the heart of the wild iris.
Its purple shadows sway over the root-dark fish. Their wet-ash wings wear medallions of patience. We drift on, buoyed by the tiny currents between us, the light long-legged, the wind full of hearts that beat quick and strong.