CREEKS

I crave the quiet intimacy of creeks

that feed the bigger rivers

roaring in the granite gorges

or widespread in redundant riffles

with nothing to say. I rather fish

dark cutbanks and water skeeter

eddies frothed below white dogwoods

arching over High Sierra leaks, eclipsing

all but mottled light as I move upstream—

each small pool a unique realm

for browns and rainbows

grazing transparent skirts.

Now that I know I won’t go back,

it is not an appetite for trout

that consumes sweet memories.