A deputy leads the way
up a winding mountain road
to a pullout by a bridge.
From there, we hike up rabbit trails
and shimmy over logs
with late spring runoff
rushing underneath.
At last we come
to a grassy fringe of meadow,
lush with lupine, buttercups
and columbine. The deputy
points to a length
of floral silk
tossed aside, now circled
with police tape
yellow as butterweed.
We search, but
we find nothing.
No dead body, no
evidence of crime.
I gaze out over the lake
and wonder what lovers
happened on this place
forgetful as heaven, and left
only this proof
behind.
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