Past the fence and past the field,
Down where roots begin to build
Little halls beneath the ground,
There runs my creek with talking sound.
It is not grand. It is not wide.
You cannot sail a boat inside.
No one would point and call it great.
It never hurries, never waits.
Yet when the sun falls in that place
And lights the water in the shade,
The stones look older than the town,
Like little moons all broken down.
I go there when my head feels loud.
The creek does not ask much out loud.
It keeps on moving, thin and brown,
Past every stick and leaf and stone.
I think that’s what I like the best.
It never claims to know the rest.
It only goes where it must go
And keeps a little silver flow.