squirrel song

sylvia turned her head and licked her shoulder, tasting sweat and lemon lotion and snail dust. she walked forward, birds and wild weeds all around her, the road pockmarked with years of abuse by frisky car tires. it was good to be out in the forest, even on a road like this, even alone again without a man or dog or baby.

she walked, shoulders tired from her rucksack laden with poetry books, journal, photographs in a wal-mart package, pens, hair clips, water bottle and towel. she tried to remember the cold river water ahead and not the dust in her shoes and the sweat in her armpits.

turning a quarter mile from where she parked her car, she began her descent down the rocky canyon. squatting occasionally on her ankles, she half-slid down the embankments, stopping on a wide flat rock to feel the sun on her cheeks and take a drink of water. she felt like a summer deer, following its own simple path to food and survival. a 26 year old deer-girl, alive with pushing blood and purring organs, flesh and blood as the squirrels and woodpeckers and mountain lions of these woods.

she pranced for a moment, "now i'm a fawn," she thought, and then she heard voices.

there were three of them, sun-chapped and strong like mountain men. she inhaled quietly, feeling a blush sweep over her face. she only glanced at them and they were smiling boldly as they pushed up through the manzanita. she shaded her eyes and said hi.

how you doing, the red-shirt one replied grinningly and she ducked her head to the left. okay, she said.

she walked on a little bit, feeling their eyes following her, imagining them holding in laughter until their eyes watered like in movies.

"have fun down there," one hollered. "the water's nice today. it's getting warmer." she turned around briefly and saw that he had a kind smile and twinkly eyes and none of them were laughing. she lifted her shoulders and said thanks, and hefted her backpack and walked on.

that's it, sylvia thought. i need to start listening to hip hop and drive with an arm out the window and look everyone in the eyes with a long solemn stare. i need to be tough like angelina jolie or angelica houston, quit smiling so damn much and never, never blush. she prodded on, firm footsteps, feeling her legs strong beneath her, thinking about taking up kickboxing.

then there was the river, and she was shedding flip flops, shorts and satchel and skipping to the edge of the rock and lifting her arms high and feeling the sun and the eyes of all the hidden animals as she lifted her body graciously as a ballerina and slipped through the golden summer air and dove down deep deep deep where no one sees you blush and your blood pumps madly anyway.