Days past the last rain and the creek
sings in a lower key, like a boy turning
into a man. The water’s clear, learning
again how to be blue. The minnows know
how pebbles make a splash then eddy,
no two marks ever the same. The girl
who used a stool to clamber into bed
last night it seems swings her long
woman-legs over in the morning.
And then before you know it
they’ve gone away, leaving the braided
grass, the tire-marked lane, the rusted
gate that creaks in the slightest wind.
—Luisa A. Igloria
03 03 2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.