Right now it’s dry,

a bed of stones,

but when it storms,

this tiny creek roars

and rumbles,

rushing like a river,

twisting and swirling

as it comes to life again,

awakened by the weather

to be what it’s meant to be,

its brown green water overflowing

its shallow banks,

not deep enough to have a name,

not known on any map

but swift as any creek

in any land before

it disappears,

its source unknown,

and yet it comes back

time and time again

as it has for centuries,

long before the trees,

along its banks,

long before the quail

and other birds,

long before the bear

and rabbits,

the squirrels and snakes,

the ghosts of beasts

that hunted here,

long before I made my home

nearby and though I know

this little creek

will never be more than it is,

when it sings its storm filled song,

its operatic voice is heard

and calls me to my door

to watch and listen to its life,

its mighty life,

its swift and swirling life

before it disappears

to who knows where,

its bed of stones

no longer wet

from the wildness

of its being in the world,

dry again and waiting,

waiting,

waiting

like all of us are waiting.