And waking on the sand at 5:30,
still hot, the sky thin, Uncle Bob knee-deep
in snowmelt soaping his freckled body
white. And lying there, pretending to still dream,
lather glistening as his uncle scrubbed
in some holy panic, head to surfacing
foot, the shine gathered to him like a cloud.
Bass and lizard scattered when he shrieked,
when he fell back shaped like some rabid cross
to cold lake. He kicked away from shore.
And cousins sat up in their bags to see
a yowling backstroke. And the boat rocked
gingerly on its tether, whatever storm
that drove them there long gone, like anyone�s dad.