ART FIELD TRIP
At the river we take off our clothes and lie on flat rocks
with their scales erased. Watchful and quick
in the breeze, the hawks study us
until we slide, entwined, into the water.
When the current washes us back on the bank,
we paint ourselves
with red mud and climb to a cave. Pressing
primitive hands and mouths
against the wall, we learn the syntax of Lascaux.
Later, in the forest, the technique for being
trees is pointillism
practiced with the tip of the tongue, leaving
leaves and limbs quaking
in tiny fractions of picnic light.
We finish at the beach and fall asleep cradled
in sand dunes.
Awakened by the shade, we are late afternoon colors
of raw glass,
bled into one another in the dropping sun.
Gabriele Priska von Beroldingen