Telling: Streams & Logs


old men

Found the path of the creek as it crosses 5th street, a revelation broad as a boulevard. There it is as it runs toward the elementary school, crossing the path that Tucker and Glen walked. That creek. I stop. I continue. Something seems to open up as I turn onto Brown but I can't remember what. Some aspect of work, perhaps only the possibility of stepping back from the front line, of assessing the projects that want doing and picking one and doing it. A falling leaf stars my groin, my lap in motion, small sharp hiss of a kiss and away. The kindness of the cheek of the hill as I crest it. The pivot point after which nothing matters, nothing hurts or disturbs or over-challenges because I'm headed home now. The trees and stones walking straight lines together in the place of the dead. The hunch of old men patrolling the yard and the garbage left in the wake of the moving truck. You want that bird bath? the one asks the other, their shoulders so round, their heads like small balls resting there.