Village Creek collected fallen limbs, tulip poplar fruit, litter. Sometimes, the narrow channel cutting between the large flat rock and the upright sharp one clogged with a storm's detritus, a log creating a temporary waterfall. But always the little pool where water striders skipped, minnows swam, and crayfish darted bottomed in silken silt. I had to search for pebbles.
II.
Abbo's Alley's creek reminds me of home, though less rocky and more pebbly. Still, striders and crayfish flourish there, but no minnows. Instead, Ebony Spreadwings collect along the bank, alighting on overhanging leaves, challenging one another, flitting away every time the woman with the camera approaches. Sometimes, wandering there, I hear the bells ring, and remember the other resonant call of Mother's dinner bell on the porch.
III.
My first poetic crush: Dylan Thomas and "Fern Hill," with which recitation I won the poetry contest in my junior year of prep school. His "pebbles [lay in] the holy streams."
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