You would have liked this place, the cabins with the bunk beds and the boards under the mattresses, the woodland trail, all the empty rooms, the secret little places and the rain, especially at night between the unlit buildings. When she stood and left the circle, wandering with purposed aimlessness around the darkened room, waiting for her man to take the hint, to rise and follow, I thought of you, and thought of her in the wet grass, suddenly naked, dragging me down, rolling across Mother Earth inside you, our mouths locked in passion until I take control and pound into the mud from behind your back arched, screams of “I’m coming” lost in the falling water and the sounds of the rest of them singing Amazing Grace. Will they pass us, unseen, as we lie wrapped together, kissing again, arrive in the cabins and wonder where we are, stay up late, waiting, pretending to be asleep, watching as we fumble out of our dirt-smeared clothing, or will we run to an empty room before them, fucking on a couch or a bunk as I would have fucked her on her bed if she had taken me home that Sunday afternoon, that raining night when she lost all sense of time, and place, and propriety, praying to the God of Free Love with each long slow hard stroke that pushes her further back in to the pillow that they will not find us, or if they do, that they will join us in glad applause?