A lean-to appears in our woods.

Branches caked with lichen, thin trunks stripped of bark incline against an oak.

A crude bench waits inside.

Skins do not cover this shelter It opens to skies of morning, afternoon and early night, before stars flash their daggers.

I can almost see her in a tight knit sweater, him in a scruffy brown jacket, sitting in silence.

His tanned hand clasps hers more pale.

Two school bags rest under the bench.

They hear trees sparring limb to limb, notice a blue jay bury acorns beside the oak, woodpeckers with crimson heads scour the bark of pines.

He is about to kiss her, and she averts her eyes, although for months she lay awake as her breasts began to swell, and imagined that he would. We don’t go in.