The Big Creek
Ruts made by someone I do not know
lay before me in their olive glow
Roots and branches put on a dance of apathy
As though I were an ant whizzing through happily
I saw a grove layered in mud and mulch
A question popped into my grey sludge
Is this the namesake of this place?
The dried musky dots on the ground hide a lot,
None revealing. I am left bereft on the spot
I patrolled these ways through sweats and wipes,
As well, I patrolled, hugging my shoulders,
Among the deer that run away at my greetings,
Among the dirt that smelled brown,
As my foot was caked in mud,
As the old roots brought me to ground
I search around and ask myself once more
Did I miss the namesake of this place?
The white leaves twinkle among the brush,
As the chill plays tricks to creep in a hush
The paths laid for wheels, parallel they lay bare
The other two legs — they do not care
The first carving on the ground that I crossed
It seems the broken branches ate the water
The second was a creek of leaves
Fluids were not part of the third either
My ears perk up, hoping for the sounds of trickles
I consider once again
Are these combined the namesake?
The deers, the only mythical beings of this place
I imagine them, my interviewees, in their own base
What thoughts would they shed
When asked about the concrete paths they now tread
What a curious thing to be in a place so empty
A cherub, sprayed by moss, hugged the stone tree
Quiet exuded from its sleeping eyes,
and I knew the warmth of patrolling these ways
I leave refreshed and with the question