The Cabin on the Creek
a constant in my life has been the creek:
LeConte Creek, known in settler times as Mill Creek,
since its steady fall toward the sea,
whispered power to those who farmed its banks,
a steady way to transform rock-hard corn kernels
into meal that could fuel for for the table,
and be transformed into liquor for the spirit,
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the fall of the reek still loosely whispers,
as if it is rain shushing us into listening,
magic coming from the cascading rapids,
followed by clear pools where trout and kids
find themselves right as the rain which fuels it all,
our cabin is on the creek,
since my mother bought the easement
for we were the last house before the national park,
many are drawn to the “Cabin on the Creek”,
a favorite spot—the comfortable screened porch
where the creek’s sight and sound
hug and hold them like a mother
and let them relax
and know,
that at least for now,
all is right with the world,
I sit here:
the rocks, the trees, the pools,
like brothers and sisters to me,
a cool breeze drops down the valley along with the stream:
for now, here, all feels right with the world.
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