Tipi Camp

At Tipi Camp we rise in silence.
Hot chai waits,
the simple joy of warm water
on my face.
The pink of sunrise matches the pink of sunset.
I'm settling into my driftwood bench
after a night of fluid dreams,
revelations to explore -
journal,
pebbles,
quiet,
connections -
when two bare bodies greet the lake.
One lithe, strong frame on the tiny dock,
one full, lovely shape makes ripples
in another direction.
They are nymphs, are women, are
the glory that is all things
open and bare, seen and unseen.
Their bodies float back towards me
and I'm filled with longing for
what they're doing.
Want that expanse of cool water though,
I know,
I too can have that.
Want that fearless freedom,
though I know, too,
that I am a heavenly water creature,
that I too was made to float.

On the last morning at Tipi Camp,
I wake to a beautiful face and a
silent invitation to swim.
We make our way down the pebbled beach,
peel back bed clothes and stumble in.
I push off a rock, push myself under,
arms propel cool, clean water.
I remember strokes I learned at eight,
how to make a heart shape with my arms,
my legs little frogs.
I am all amphibian and nymph,
one with wild water bugs and their skittish ways.
We skim and dance,
float on, energy and grace.
Her face is so lovely as it rises from the water,
new friends so full of vital life force,
so ready to connect, go deep,
be born. 

And from nowhere geese start singing,
breaking our silence.
Heads turn and the birds' discuss,
rally, decide to take flight and
bring their song to another bit of shore.
They rise, voices fading,
float in a perfect line beyond the point.
We are a collective catch of breath,
a remarkable and full sigh.