A Path Along The Creek

A path along the creek is littered with brown
parchment that disintigrates with each step
into the smell of wet loam, the path dips down,
borders the cascade of water over rocks

into a pool of white foam; side by side a pair
of mallards summoned, dabble the edge of waiting
for the ambition of buds, red in the maples, silver
in the birches. A male phoebe beaks mud from the bank

carries it to dab and mold in a corner of the eaves.
After his week of toil the female arrives, inspects,
and cups the nest to the heat of her body, readies
it for brooding six small white eggs. In a few more

weeks grass, sedges, flowers, and leaves. Winter
fades, the monotone woods awaken. Step careful,
watch under your feet, bloodroot eases up the first
warm rain night, green leaves curled, the perfection

of each white bud wrapped tight, waiting, waiting
for their one day to open to the sun and bleed.