The Dwindled Creeks of Summer

We are off to enjoy peace and quiet in our favorite camping spot. The picture above was taken there last year. As always, I find a feeling of familiarity when I read Mary Oliver's words.

Creeks

The dwindled creeks of summer,

Unremarkable except,

Down pasture,

through woodlot,

They are so many

And keep such a pure sound

In each roiling thread,

Trickle past the knees of trees,

Dropped leaves, salamanders

Each one scrubbing and cooling

The pebbles of its bed.

My back to hickory, I sit

Hours in the damp wood, listening.

It never ebbs.

Its music is the shelf for other sounds:

Birds, wind in the leaves, some tumbled stones.

After awhile

I forget things, as I have forgotten time.

Death, love, ambition — the things that drive

Like pumps in the big rivers.

My heart

Is quieted, at rest. I scarcely feel it.

Little rivers, running everywhere,

Have blunted the knife. Cool, cool,

They wash above the bones.
-Mary Oliver