A young woman was pleasuring herselfon a pine tree that had fallen acrossthe narrow river where I went to fish,straddling the trunk, her feet just breakingthe water, her body leaning forwardwith hands pressed into the bark.White shorts rode up her thighs and bunchedat her crotch as she settled into an uneven rhythm.I thought of love, and you, my love.But here, now, I see it—watching her ride the tree,lifting one hand and then the other to waveat the sky like a conductor, this quiet expression of pleasure,this face of surprise. Strange angel—no matter how much she rocked herselfshe would not loosen the tree from its resting place,she would not set forth down the river,drifting somewhere new, somewhere east of here.