Swimming at Squaw Valley

On the way to the swimming spot
peapod moss, the columbine,
one Jeffrey pine,
and what it is to be alive,
the sun puncturing our resistance,
pushing us on.
I stop, you stop,
like children,
but not like children.

The river in white ruffle
across and down and under rock, saying
Yes, yes.
Our breath and legs
brushing.

A last turn, and the slithering,
the sliding
down the bank
to the river so glad to see us.
Then chilled and charged,
with nipples that stand,
reaching for our seaweed hair.

The cold sends us back to shore
shimmying, like puppies, like poems,
like poets shaking the swimming away.