Bon Iver is out back bathing the horses after a long day’s work in the fields. As he gently cleans their necks and shoulders, barrels and bellies, he sings a sweet song of gratitude. Later, he will fill the galvanized tin tub we keep in the yard with water he’s warmed over the fire, and we will bathe together. He will be far too distracted to sing.
There is a note in the bucket I carry to the garden. Nestled between a trowel and a dirty hand rake, the note reads, ‘Meet me in the hayloft, 1PM.’ When I peek over the top of the ladder, he is naked and grinning!
I am in the greenhouse pollinating tomato flowers with a paintbrush when I hear him return. He crushes me in his arms that smell of hotel soap. We make love right there beside the machinery shed, interrupted once by an incurious turkey passing by. Later he pushes me in the tire swing as the sun slips behind the western hills and shares stories from his tour.
His suitcase is still in the truck, forgotten along with the yearning of being apart.
