Common camping spot, far side of the lake,
We'd only come here twice before, once
Years before daughter's birth, carried here
Under a September moon in the motorboat
Of a park ranger, and once again two years
Ago, swimming the whole way in the sun,
Daughter a four year-old towed with others
In their swimsuits, life jackets, and sun hats
Colorful and cheerfully noisy as cockatoos
Behind a slow flotilla accompanying
The swimmers. We buried a box of treasure
By the falls and last night finally returned,
This time neither under the sun, just slipped
Behind the mountains, nor under the moon
Not yet risen in a smoky, cloudless evening,
This time neither motored nor swimming,
Paddling a kayak instead over glass water.
The first time there'd been no one at the falls
And the second time there were dozens
Meandering the trails. This time two families
Camping, slightly disconsolate in the twilight
Because of the ban on campfires, looking
Ghostly sitting on rocks, lying in hammocks
As the haze paled and darkened. We didn't
Find the treasure, although we brought
Our map and dug in approximately the right
Places by a trio of trees. Ah well. It wasn't
Deeply buried. Probably found by someone
Long ago. That's the problem with dreaming
During the day. Over two years, imagination
Delighted in the occasional thought of return
With a large group to dig up the treasure
Playfully and in triumph, laughing all the way
Back across the lake. But those friends
Dispersed, and when we finally returned
Quietly, just with daughter, she was excited
And enthusiastic but disappointed. We sat
On the pebbly shore, sharing watermelon,
Then paddled back. She kept the map.
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