The small creek slicing through Crestwood Manor
slides some thirty yards beside an asphalt
drive before diving like glazed eels under
brush and the road’s curve, then rises to vault
crowds of rocks and weeds, primed to disappear
through dense trees of Allsopp Park. Even now,
after standing watch over brooks for years,
I marvel at each sparkling leap, laud how
pools between them stand still and smooth, tintype
frozen in time. With a hundred dwellings
framing the stream, litter’s a minor gripe.
The maintenance crew keeps it from swelling.
A burly groundhog drinks there, bulk slouching
in slow retreat each time I’m approaching.
Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2007
