After a long day on the steering
end of her old canoe, when the
only light shimmering on the lake
was the vanilla moon of late July.
Her friends slept in the tent
they struggle to erect that day
on Mile Island.
The camp fire smoldered,
crickets sang
while fireflies played
in the nearby bush.
Gingerly balancing herself, barefoot,
over the slippery surface of the crag
along the lake shore.
Slipping off her clothing,
sliding quietly into the dark depths.
She swam naked with the Buck moon.
Joyce Chelmo
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/buck-moon/
