I lived once alongside the creek
with its green tumblings and blue pools,
where younger hands than these knew
the language of the ridges in the bark
of the oak that created a bridge of itself –
a path to the tall grasses fanning the sky
on the other side, where the small adventures
of frog-finding and sugar maple climbing waited,
to the tucked-away nests of the kildeer,
who darted in with shrill admonishments
to distract curious eyes from their cache
even then the creek was a confidante,
swallowing cares without complaint –
rolling them into eddies,
tumbling them over rocks,
until with time they inclined
more toward the size and shine of sand,
the gift of a much more manageable grit
© Sarah Whiteley
