unclothed

The movement sounds too voluptuous to be the rain;

yet, too fluid to be the stream.

The wind snakes through the trees,

like blood shooting through arteries.

It reminds her of adjusting one’s posture or clicking one’s fingers –

like a burst of energy waiting to be set free.

It must be the rain, she decides.

For it flows much too drastically

to be the quaint trickle of hard water

that carves its way down these alpine hills.

Her hips twitch

as he lies the cushion of his touch

so delicately upon her skin,

elegantly grazing down the outline

of her unclothed figure.