Eyes deep in reflected flames
the tide calls to us,
draws us along stars of upturned roots,
through air cut by snipe,
past the heart-blur of duck flying off water,
pulls us to the river mouth,
confluence of fresh and saltwater.
We lie down by the high tide mark,
its utter integrity –
the rolling together of
oak and berry, feather and kelp.
I badly want to touch you.