Sighing with regret for the seventh day,
I crouch as close as business wear allows,
Straining to hear the shale-bottomed creek,
While wishing to flop on her eastern flank,
With the muddy pebbles, driftwood, and silt.
We could all relate from here, I think
Squinting at how lean she’s gotten within a week,
And how far she’s retreated from the alder grove
To expose the parent rock below them both.
Has the shale grasped this, or
Addressed it with our vocalist?
They are so intimate . . .
Just look at her:
Graceful, sure . . . intrepid . . .
Gliding over him.
She chuckles under my study, but never slows
Picking up, from shoreside willows and maples,
Vivid figments of a short, hot summer;
And more effortlessly than the wind,
Ferrying those colourful leaves downstream.
They twist and glide,
Attuned to her musicality,
And as I listen, I suspect she speaks,
For our ancestors, and
Perhaps our descendants too.
In fact, we could be sisters, the creek and I
. . . But there goes a drake . . . .
If I skip this stone and land on that . . .
Skip that log and jump to land,
Then I’d . . .
Oops . . . I was supposed to be listening
To the creek.
Right pity, her voice is so easily lost,
Given all that rides her jagged bed of stones.