Stream
I walked the short trail
to your edge - my car sitting
on the road 50 feet above.
It was quiet, except for the occasional vehicle passing,
the buzz of insects around my head
you beckoned me from the road -
I could feel you before I heard you
heard you before I saw you.
That babbling sound, tumbling
clear liquid rushing over rocks slick with moss and algae
"sit by me" you seemed to say.
"It's safe here, harbor next to me, sit on a rock."
I needed your comfort
I needed to know that nothing could befall me
as I sat watching your water swift fly by.
I sat quietly under the shade of a tree
bowed over the stream. I remembered
your cousins, dozens of other streams and rivers.
The one I lived next to for a year
powerful rapids, roaring down the canyon to smooth out later on the plain
That small stream in New Mexico I camped by one night.
the broad, flat Connecticut that I fear I hardly notice anymore
they all speak to me, request audience, time, my attention.
You all proclaim your safety, even the one
I nearly drowned in - but I didn't did I?
I come back to the present moment,
reluctantly walk back up to the steel and plastic of my car in regret.
I still hear you in my ears.