for Glen Miller Park
See the crooked, silvan creek
hiding, craning the neck,
out of the corners, run or sneak,
nurse the clapping water
off the pebble–the sound trickles.
I only know a familiar tone, that tender,
in my heart’s soft syllables.
Any step shifts the leaf-filled valley.
Soon on the opposite summit,
drawn down the bark, dull, dense, diverse
and desiduous hues of forest grey,
two share a secret shelter.
Carving out chips and shaving out splinters
they whisper, “Our initials…” into the hard lumber.
12 August 2015