poem.

Passing by Judith Barrington

Light-fingered wind teases our bare skin
as we stride with an easy rhythm

for two good miles, breasting the hill
in shorts, socks and dusty boots

between salmon-pink ponderosas
crusty bark, etched with black.

At an unexpected bend in the trail
we stop, face to face with strangers-

the woman in front, shielding him
from our bare breasts and clumsiness.

In the blazing sun, the red bandanna
drags over my eyes, the hasty shirt

catches my sunglasses; i blush;
i curse, needing to pass.

The shirtless man mumbles
close to me on the foot-wide trail

and i cover my sweaty breasts-
blushing and cursing and passing.