Crickets and sprinklers br fill the dark with chirping; br white arcs of spray br are thrown around us, br drumming the soaked earth, br loud as surf from a quiet sea. br and we, chasing moonlight, br dance under these arms of waves, br escape a drenching, br but catch the fine mist in our hair. br Scent of cut grass exhales br from the still-warm br ground in a long sigh br with the rising dew, br just as your breath near my ear br speaks of a long, hot yearning. br There is a stirring within us: br we are no longer dancing in each others' arms br but dancing in each other, br resting on the bench at the 8th hole.