The small creek meandered through the fallow field

A jagged scar of shadows topped with mops of grass

Overhanging the few rocks and clods of dirt

Which bordered the ribbon of brown water.

Its surface was opaque and irregular

As it alternately spread and constricted

While traveling to a corrugated confluence

At the steel pipe which ran under the gravel road.

The streams quiet flow

Was contained and ordered for a brief, burbling moment

Before appearing once again

Re-establishing its commitment to carving the softer soils

Into organic artworks

Contrasting the smoother canvas of the gently rolling land

Framed by fences whose wires stretched lazily onto the distant fenceposts

Like the strings of a disused guitar wandering loosely between the frets.

Red winged blackbirds dotted the banks

Anchored in acute angles on spikes of dried thistle;

Keen-eyed sentinels patrolling the steep-cut berms

Opportunely culling the few insects from the windblown seeds

Which remained from the Fall’s final dissemination.

It was so quiet at that time of year, a sullen featureless sky hanging low

Nothing like the flurry of activity which accompanied summer’s warmth

When the air always buzzed and hummed with insects and birds

As it rustled through the fields grown high during the longer days

Carrying the fragrant scents of life in the heavy air.

Now, the creek was but an echo of its summer self

As it seemed to skulk away in dodging twists and turns

To be lost from sight in the vertical static of the trees beyond the fence

Its terminus only glimpsed by the imagination of the beholder.

By James Geehring

From: United States

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