in Jewel lake. August
the hottest month.
At our mountain
lake I was chilled.
You rolled stones
into a fire pit at
the side of the lake.
The flames seemed
so strange rising
transparent over blue
water. The only way
they’d coexist without
snuffing each other out.
You fished and I napped
by the fire we only caught
one that day and the fish
never made it home.
We put him on a strip
of stone, a plate
from the rock that kept rupturing
compressed heat baking
below it. The fish cooked
evenly on our little rock
tasted soft and fleshy.
When it was time
to go we buried the bones
in the ash, brought pieces
of the lake in empty bottles
the day extinguished
the hike home before us.
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