I hadn’t been to this section of the creek
in a long time, maybe not since the autumn
of last year. Today I came here on a whim,
wanting a new perspective, not of the creek,
although I would welcome that, too. No,
it was something larger, and deeper, I sought,
something to dispel the wistful melancholy
that wrapped me like some dim veil.
It happens every fall. The year, after all,
is coming to its end, all it held rushing away.
The blast of cold air that struck me
as I emerged from my warm car woke me,
Startled I breathed it in, I took in the whole
scene with a sweep of my eyes. The pines,
the hill with its bare trees and the fallen leaves
spilling down to the rocky creek, and the creek
itself, singing in the cold. I didn’t name things.
I tasted and smelled them and felt them
on my skin and heard their silence and sounds.
I saw the motion of it all, the constant change,
all choreographed. And how perfect the light!
I walked along the creek for a while, noticing
the details, noticing that my face wore a smile
and my eyes felt alive, as if they had awakened
just now from some deep sleep. And so they had.