Crawling between the cobbles,
the creek begins to run again
lifting a discarded cover of leaves
into fragile rafts downstream
in the prolonged undressing
awaiting a freeze. White flesh
shows on some, bare limbs
reaching outward like flashers
in open russet trench coats
having shed their blush of crimson
weeks ago—slow and deliberate
provocations for hundreds of years
here, of frolicking sycamores, naked
nymphs dancing across the creek
when no one is looking.
drycrikjournal 
Is that Manson Creek?
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No, it’s Dry Creek on December 23, 2015. This year the creek has barely reached the house, a paltry flow not worth noting yet.
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