We could not fully appreciate
the clear water in Sansing Hallow.
We were only boys
but even then we felt something,
we listened to the voices
whispering through the trees.
We obeyed, followed the water

on Saturday mornings in cut-offs,
tee-shirts and cheap shoes.
We slipped through cool water
that soothed briar cuts
casting yellow beetle spins
into the current — down
among the rocks.

Years later we began to realize
the length of the creek, to understand
its value despite those who abused it,
those who took her for granted.
We fought for the creek,
crying with her wounds, marveling
at her resiliance.

There is something pitifully human
the way we fail to honor heaven
so close to home, the way
we look the other way,
afraid to speak out
refusing to change —
unworthy of her shores.

Steam pillowing through the hills
rising from frosty meadows
in November — late Autumn sun
brightens the morning,
seeps through leafless timber
leaving nothing hidden —
nothing at all.