The lark ate an earthworm as if we weren’t there. It would not be bothered.
S smacked it with her hand.
 
M wore a red scarf.
He removed it while I watched.
With one arm he wrapped
it around the exposed skin on my neck.
I leaned over the fire pit but the fabric did not catch.

We were surrounded by trees.
S yelled in French, rending her garments.
Her English was poor.
She wore
a red dress like burning wood.
 
When it would not sing
we swung at the bird.
 
Je ne suis pas belle, S insisted. I am not beautiful.
 
It began to rain,
water dripped off the leaves like wax.
We returned
to the spruce-pines, the cabin, our beds.
A long tail of fabric pulled and followed
us in a trail of brilliant red.
 
Sheets up to our necks.
The bulbs burned coal-hot—
 
Then the lark made its rattled noise,
sounding as if it came straight
from that black mixture of earth and night.
 
The rain continued through twilight.
By morning the earth was swollen,
like a bruise.