The summer they backpacked into the mountains
they camped by a stream at the bottom of a canyon
The first morning, groggy out of their sleeping bags,
they lit the fire again, drank tea until the sun
warmed the boulders around them and the hawks hung high
above the pines, aspens and spruce
By afternoon, at that altitude, the sun heated the canyon
They undressed, four young women, four young men,
yet free of scars on their chests, arms, breasts and buttocks,
edged into the chilling, twisting waters of the stream,
dove laughing over and around each other
until what they had been trying to escape found them again
They toweled with their long sleeved shirts on the flat boulders
in wildflower air swirling through trees and shrub
The sun dried their skin, warmed their bones,
lulled them into a fugue of a world they would leave
for draft cards, hand scribbled signs, tear gas and handcuffs
Waking, they combed knots from each other’s long hair
until the strands gleamed blackberry and honey
The stream tumbling over the stones flashed
hypnotic in their eyes, reflected off their faces
In the crash of the stream and at that moment their skin
glowed in the fresh cold given up by natural waters