Fall Creek

The spring-fed creek,
dry all summer

bone dry just yesterday,

is running again,

rushing along

and in this new world silence

I hear it—

growling at the rocks

chatting to the sticks

sluicing the pine needles along


and while I’ve been waiting

for the rain, anticipating

the return of the creek’s fine running

now it’s here I wish

I’d walked the dry bed more often,

visited its cool dry shade,

held fists full of scented needles
,
inhaled summer

when I could.