Where the path to the lake twists out of sight, <br />A puff of dust, the kind bare feet make running, <br />Is what I saw in the dying light, <br />Night swooping down everywhere else. <br /> <br />A low branch heavy with leaves <br />Swaying momentarily where the shade <br />Lay thickest, some late bather <br />Disrobing right there for a quick dip-- <br /> <br />(Or my solitude playing a trick on me?) <br />Pinned hair coming undone, soon to float <br />As she turns on her back, letting <br />The dozy current take her as it wishes <br /> <br />Beyond the last drooping branch <br />To where the sky opens <br />Black as the water under her white arms, <br />In the deepening night, deepening hush, <br /> <br />The treetops like charred paper edges, <br />Even the insects oddly reclusive <br />While I strained to hear a splash, <br />Or glimpse her running back to her clothes . . . <br /> <br />And when I did not; I just sat there. <br />The rare rush of wind in the leaves <br />Still fooling me now and then, <br />Until the chill made me go in.<br /><br />Charles Simic<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bather/
