ANOTHER OCTOBER: McCORMICK'S CREEK
upstream stone blocks back
the water up
pond scum and a clot of leaves
picnic table lost thrown on its side
the mass of oak holding its age together
above rocks and water
sycamore flaking itself to bones
growl of no animal but traffic
a distant mystery
your long hair your long arms your long
silence if misplaced today I would
come your way
for misdirections to be lost is to have
a place to leave from and a way
to find back