Lime Creek

Lime Creek in the rain
soft, soft footsteps
the water a long
meandering stain

not quite green
a half-reflection
Quaking beneath the trees
half trees, half rain

The eyes beneath the mirror
can turn, can stare
and seeing rain they flee
and seeing me they flee

But thirty
thirty, whispers
in the summer forests of my mind
in short spaces, running

running in cold crisp cacophony
with tired meadows, muddy roads
wild raspberries amidst the fire weed
and the wet shudder of violet wings

running down hillsides of blasted sediment
the crick crack of broken rock
shattered in modern dissonance
singing in stolen tongues

running in black and brown and red
tongues of muddy earth
earth that is old
earth that is strong and solid and steeped in mud

thirty, running, running
past the tin can targets
the twenty odd pieces of charred firewood
the man, the boy, the pine and the sage

thirty dirty pieces of crumpled paper
running in the rain
running, always, running
into Lime Creek.