The fire has been tended, logs turned over, around a river running through hours. Dirt under fingernails we watch crayons melt summer blue to dark indigo then navy, branches fade from texture to shadow. We wait for Saturn. I know the planet and its ring will not cross our horizon until long after her bedtime. But she dances like a deer. I do not have the heart to tell her what she will not see. When the temperature drops, she tires into a fern, curls into a fiddlehead. She tucks her nose into the crease of my shoulder, finds sleep, satisfied with the wanting.