The Creek is my place...

Today's thoughts brought to you by Mary Oliver 

Creeks 

The dwindled creeks of summer,

Unremarkable except,

Down pasture, through woodlot,

There 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 the 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.