For Sandy who
came with me.

Hey, come out old moon,
sing that silvery tune
and wash our kayaks in light,
for the river's
too dark tonight,
winding us downstream
between shadows
framing a shoreless dream,
with only stars to flicker
through our fears,
we clutch our paddles,
silence grips our ears,
then see the bridge at last,
now double-decked, with
moving lights cast
on our plastic floats
-awakened, we land two
night-drenched boats.

The night the moon was late.
August 15, 2003