In my dream the creek says:

I am not your pet. I can rise. In one afternoon I can take back everything I’ve laid down for a thousand years.

Someday when the world is entirely covered with roads,

there won’t be any place left to visit—and therefore no reason to ever slow down.

they can’t possibly be gathering
all on their own

all the empty beds
standing on end

one feels at times barely tethered to the earth.

the immaculate ignorance
of snow

we brought our words folded up like dangerous umbrellas.

all that’s left is location
location location

and the other foot, too, in this world, I am learning to love the dailyness of my walks.

when nearly everyone shared a knowledge of what the Bible said and an ignorance of what it meant.

is like a folded wing. A sleeping face is a dry riverbed with the faint sound of water somewhere below.

and its occupant insists on throwing stones.