The Creek Poem by Peter Olevnik

At my morning window
catching my eye
was the rain sent creek,
often dry, just beyond my dooryard.

Nibbling, nudging, then etching
the loam rich soil
clinging to its edges,
it coursed its recumbent way.

So unlike the grassy crowd
climbing up its craggy sides,
the swollen creek now mirrored
the shimmering, cloud fed sky.

Where the street and creek came face to face,
not taking to our rectangular mode,
preferring nature's less angled course,
the creek was tunneled on its way.

Beyond, the creek and street
flowed side by side,
till compelled again to divide,
their courses finally parting.

One stretched unbending in its direction,
the other gently wending
into a woods of tulip trees,
into a forest celebration.