This creek is my panther.
I know its contours well enough
to let my hummingbird indecision
blend into the entire cavity,
little switches on the compass
directionless as a total understanding.
I hear the sagebrush cry out
when the water is even lower
than usual. This lucid green does
not need to drink, but it hates
to see the gray squirrels
go thirsty.
It took this long to know this creek
four bends ahead, and now that I do
I see more more bends, and I bend,
and we are both facing
the center of our musics. The summer
creek lets the moss run its race, knowing
only too well that winter will clean
its face.
Roman Ryan 