They have ridden in the wagon all this first day, the memory
of last night on the hotel's white sheets like birdsong in the air
around them. He glances at her face from time to time, half-hidden
under the straw bonnet, trying to understand how a girl he's known
all his life could have turned into this woman, quiet on the seat
beside him or sometimes humming a little tune, looking so unremarkable
in her gingham dress covered with travel dust, sometimes
asking a question about the house he's built her, what kind of porch,
how far is the spring and has he planted any trees yet, for fruit
or shade? He answers. He watches her hands folded in her lap
and notices her boot's brown toe peeking out from under the skirt,
sometimes tapping as she hums. The shadow of her lashes
against her cheek. In his mind, the white waves of her skin
are breaking over him, her hair is loose across his face. He can't
stop the wagon and take her into his arms. They have too far to go.
Then she turns to watch a hawk soaring above them and leans
into his shoulder, the straw hat grazing his jaw. Without speaking
he reaches his arm around her waist. She doesn't start; her hand
covers his; the hawk dives into the grass just behind the creaking wagon,
and comes up with a wriggling snake. Her body tenses a little
and softens against him. Glad that snake didn't spook the mules,
he says. Remember the ones in Potter's Creek, swimming
with their heads full out of the water? I do, she says, and smiles.
I remember more than that, you boys splashing like drowning
oxen and the mosquitos biting so bad. It is afternoon. They will drive
until the darkness overtakes them and stop for the night.

forthcoming in Walking Wheel, ms. in progress