G. A. Scheinoha

Gleam

Off to the western edge of his thoughts she sits, as wild as a woman has ever come. She's no buffalo girl. She won't be bisoned into anything. Or roped, ridden and penned like a steer. No stanchion could ever hope to contain her. She'd bust down the stall and roam every bit as stallion-proud, high-heeled in silhouette before maring off into the red sky at night, some sailor's delight. She isn't the girl in this port. She's every safe harbor in the world.

light steers us
clear of the shoals;
her moonlit smile