Creek Stories

June 1938 Papio Creek’s crystal clear water moved steadily under the Nebraska midday sun, a gentle wind skimming the surface. The Roma’s brightly painted wagons rolled along the trail and settled into the soft prairie grass near the banks. Buckets and spare harnesses clanked against the wagons’ heavy wooden sides. They stopped in a line along the creek bank. The Roma had made this stretch of land near the Papio their summ...

Last spring I paddled up Joy Creek. The water was high and I couldn't get far.The cathedral arch of green branches whispered.The noon sun sparkled like stained glass. Last summer I paddled up Joy Creek.The water was lower and I pushed under more of the brush.I sat in the silence, whispering prayers with the wind.The morning sun glowed with hope. Last autumn I paddled up Joy Creek.I went as far as I ever had, but didn't se...

  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 ti...