There’s a glade just
north of Brevard, where no lights
can reach, where no vehicle
can reach, where no fear
can reach. There’s a pump
that draws just
above frozen. There’s a short
gentle dirt cliff with good
throwing rocks. There’s a
public bathroom that is just
a toilet seat over a deep hole.
There is a stream three feet
at the deepest point. There is
a narrow shore with narrow sand,
slick rocks to slip across. There
is green. There is sparkle
in the flow, mineral visible but
too spare without sun. There
is a campsite that is just
beaten down earth. There
is a fire pit, mostly, that is just
a ring of stones. There is a
wooden footbridge stained green
with moss and algae, sturdy
for another twelve years.

There is a woman

There is a woman with her head just
under the flowing pump, left hand
pressing against the rusted grate.
For balance. There is a woman
stepping across creek bed rocks.
There is a woman laying on the narrow
shore with the narrow sand against
her back, her feet just
in the unnamed water.