In Sausal Creek the water is black.
The light on its surface flickers
and is white but not wet.
From a tree the clicking
sound of a crow I can’t see.
Trickle of the water. Its sound.
I did not expect otherwise
but I document it for the future
so the future will know:
in the creek the water was black,
sunlight reflected white but
the light did not get wet;
crows in trees made sounds
like a rapid repeated clicking.
It was not the only sound they made.
Water at that time of year
trickled in the sense of its motion,
its volume and its sound, each.
Others walked the creek trail,
mostly in frightened unfriendliness.
Some had dogs and I told a man
I thought his dog was pretty,
a reddish colored hearty looking
friendly lab mix. Speaking to the man
was very hard for me. Not a thing
I had wanted to do but I’d felt
I ought as we were set
so closely to pass
on the narrow trail.
The man returned a blank stare
as I passed and spoke and wished
that he’d known how hard
it had been for me to engage
with him and his red dog
on the trail by the clicking crow,
the trickling water, the flickering light.
J O'Brien
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