Indian Creek with Neighbor Boy
       

When we were kids, we explored
the creek, meandered with it
through our yards and beyond
as if we had discovered it
ourselves. We wandered along its bed,
navigating its contours
until we learned where the water
moved fastest, where it trickled,
where its stones jutted out
forming steps for us to cross
from one side to the other.
When we knew the creek perfectly,
we rolled our pants,
tossed our dirty socks and damp sneakers
and waded through it,
lifting rocks to catch crayfish
and scooping up salamanders
shrouded in the cool mud.

In winters, we stomped along
its gray frozen surface like giants,
cracking the ice with our heavy steps,
or slid clumsily on the thicker patches
behind the McCabes' house.
Once, you shattered it
and fell in. When you got up,
dripping wet, tears
streaming down your chubby child cheeks,
you turned to me,
claimed it was my fault—
a true friend wouldn't just stand there.
To ease your pain,
I lay in the frigid creek,
in the exact spot where you had fallen.

Tweet

Copyright © 2021 Robin Rosen Chang All rights reserved
from The Curator's Notes
Terrapin Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission