In a canoe at

night, we crane at the stars till

our necks won’t let us.

Lena sterns the canoe

her J-stroke confident.

I rest my paddle.

“You can help,” she says.

A hint of irritation.

I dip in my tip

and sluice it back like

the Indians did, keeping

it in the water.

I try to be silent

let my firstborn boss me

let her be in charge.

I am afraid to

comment on the stars, lovely

and too close for June.

She lets out air, half

a sigh, and I hear

smiling in her breath.

We don’t have to fight

out here, it’s okay to talk,

she seems to tell me.

“Look” is all I want

to say, so “Look” I say, “Look.”

I point to a corner of sky

and a shooting star

skims a shower down and we

gasp together, and laugh.

No one is paddling.

We drift, the canoe rotates

back to the house.

Over our shoulders

we still feel the shimmery

fall of a dying star

and we paddle home.