He follows the creek once again
bones clicking like stone against stone
the air damp with rot and pine.
He knows this water or thinks he does.
It used to shimmer with trout
when he was a boy and spent days here.
The light begins to grow thin as
the birches turn silver and strange.
He talks aloud to keep himself company
talking to the ghosts of deer or
with the wind moving through the trees.
The creek whispers only in riddles
a language he once knew.
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keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.
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