In the light, I see the silver glint of stubble like fish scales flashing. Then the tickle-scrape, the heat underneath, and the impossible softness of your lips as they part at the space between my breasts.
Slow rocking in the cedar branches - the wind - and the whole earth seems to ache, to open wide, parting in answer to my spreading fingers, the sky unpainted and bare with one stripe of thundercloud; the paleness of my thighs in the tall, dark grass.
Your work-worn hands and the thousand lines across the palms caress; open and close in a tender gesture of stroking and soothing. There ... and there ... expert motion against the softness and the hardness that is love.
Nearby, a lapping, an inlet that sucks the shore, that ebbs and flows with the moon, flowing and feeding the great open ocean. And you ride just above the surface of me, barely touching my skin, light as the air that moves the trees.
It is the quick intake of breath, the sudden slap of the water's surface being broken - the interruption of rhythm. The arch of my back and your two grey eyes closing above me, the same grey as the sky.
You will fade as I grow older, your would-be child-bride, but still I'll permit my senses to wander and recall smoke-scented skin, the upward sweep of a dark hairline, the longing of time and waiting, the nearness of the northwest.