Rock Piles Poem by Kezziah Hopkins

in the woods, not very far from the
road, there’s a creek.
it comes upon you suddenly,
trickling down from some secret birth-place
in the hills to find this spot
and tumbling over a low rock ledge
in its haste.

it makes the place, really—
without it there would only be a
valley, non-descript, with trees
wagging their heads at each other
under the garb of their green, green
vines. some bushes, dead leaves.
but the creek tells people to

come here, alone, each thinking
themselves the first
to discover the cool, clear water,
the pebbles below,
the pool at the edge of the woods,
the rock wall, once part of a drain,
that covers the quiet journey of the
water until it falls again.

someone has been building rock piles,
precarious, wonderful structures set upon
ledges beside the falls. they sit
with a peaceful dignity, claiming
the place for their owner, saying,
“someone cares about this creek
and put us here to prove it.”

there’s a yellow mug here,
in the sand, and a fork. but no one has
touched them for weeks.

someone built a swing here, too—
maybe months ago by now. its seat
is weathered, and the ropes have begun
to fray, but a path up the bank
to the swing exposes the deep, damp
earth beneath the leaves.

the trees wag their heads in the breeze, knowingly,
and the creek trickles on through the woods,
keeping its secrets.