I am standing on the face of the sky

reflected in Jackson Lake.
Its clouds vibrate
beneath me, and I dig my toes 

into the board for balance,
as we glide—dip the paddle 
on the right, now on the left—

following the lakeshore,
my cross-legged children 
before me. Their jabber tumbles

through the curtain of solitude, 
and covers the murmurs
of water and wind,

when three river otters, a mother
with two pups, waddle from the thicket,
bellies dragging down the dusty 

bank. The mother slices through the lake,
and ripples skip from her body, infinitely 
outward. My children’s mouths form 

around bubbles of silence. They watch 
as one pup flops into the water, while the other 
chirrups for his momma. He leans 

towards her. Their noses kiss, and she wraps 
webbed paws around his neck, holding 
him to her heart, then tugs him in 

head first. He emerges baptized,
freed from fear, flipping and spinning. 
My children each claim an otter as their own. 

My daughter, tall and bold,
her grown-up smile sprouting 
through gums, wants to join them

for a swim. My son rests 
against me. His cheeks quiver. He lisps 
questions, “How does the ottow 

just know how to swim, Momma?”
The mother watches her young, and I 
watch my children. I see this moment,

framed and hung in their mind 
museums, will remain
long after childhood has rippled away.