Moonless, the night,
and aimless, our paddling,
my son and I glide on the lake
and stare into the sky,
drawing invisible lines
for constellations—
the diamond, the maggot.
the spilt milk.
Our laughter ricochets
across the water.
Though I can’t see them,
I know we are surrounded
by lily pads. The flowers
will be closed by now—
something about the reversible
expansion and contraction of cells
by changes in water balance
and differential growth of cells
due to temperature—
but here we are,
my son and I, nocturnals,
lingering in the two-note hymn of crickets,
opening in the dark.