Down at the Creek

A poem about flowing water

Photo by Flor on Unsplash

It’s nice when you can hear the water
before you can see the water.
You can imagine what it looks like
then be astonished by its first sight.

There’s a certain smell
that most creeks have:
a wet, rocky, almost fishy smell,
but fishy in a good way.

In a healthy creek, water flows
in tranquility, clear and cool,
a lens to a world aquatic,
one where change is a constant.

Silver minnows reflecting the light,
moving as one, disappearing as hundreds.
Water spilling over jagged rocks,
rolling back, hard against itself.

It longs for the sweeping bend
where it can pool
and then move
with effortless ease.

It’s there for the fly fisherman
with his light-as-air cast,
or the meditations of the poet,
sitting undisturbed in the sun.

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