She turned to me there upon the hilltop and a stir of latening air did lift the dark hair from one side of her brow. Her eyes never left mine, nor mine hers as she took a step toward me and our eyes filled each other. I was singing to her in mine of my joy in her presence, in her matchless being, and searching into hers I found that particular consuming intensity that I cherished and desired. I could not define it further, I could not tell if what I offered her she found a comfort.
Did I give her what she needed?
She would have said so, I think.

A smile began to hint
      at the corners of her mouth.

Nights on the hilltop we sat there
with our shoulders touching and our knees drawn up
and watched the sky. It swirled around us with its
promises and revealing portions of its secrets to us.

There were the planets, the stars we named and the stars left unnamed.
Cloudy ruddy nebulas, dusky, smoky, veiling,
and those bursting like irradiated gems.
There were winds and auroras, necklaces and clutches of thickly
reticulated colonies of stars. They glittered, they burned,
they swelled, glowed, diminished. Their passages we knew,
their stately dances and their awkward abberrations. But we also knew
that we could know so little of them; and they would not tell us more.

We took our small revenge by whispering secret stories about them
which we made up together and then laughed or grew full of awe at what
we had so engendered. All to make them jealous and reveal the truth.
They didn't. They must have thought us childish.