Rough Thoughts on the Stratigraphy of Small Streams

October afternoon:

The fate of a single alder leaf

Drifting down,

might have been sealed

Long before the tree.



Is less about early afternoon breezes.

More about lingering mornings,

Not yet ripe and flavored

With neatly packaged memories of summer.


This leaf floats through air

not yet lacquered in winter,

But stained with the patina of a mid-day sun

That hides swimming holes and watermelons.



This is time for one more earful of cricket song,

frog speak,

Stinging mosquito bite.


Where the leaf lands,

tastes of dust in cool woods.


Creeks move in tiny whispers here,

If they haven’t gone forgotten.


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