The creek chuckled

        recalling me falling into it

             aged four

               throwing a stick

                 and forgetting to let go.


                   The creek sighed, reminding me:


                          I didn’t kiss Lizzy Harris

                               when I had the chance


                     I wasn’t there

                   for my father’s last days


      and tyrants still rule the world.


   The creek murmured that I’ve lost:


         a cane-handled umbrella


                 a black bicycle


                       a best friend.


                           The creek whispered

                             wanting me to get back:


                             the ability to take a high mark

                           in a game of football


                     faith that the world can be made fairer.


         The creek burbled that

         for itself it would like restored:


          the little swamp where it rested


             the banjo frogs


                  the natural balance as it was

                     before the Industrial Revolution.


                          The creek would like that

                                       very much.