Today the creek's confluence is turbulent, its long smooth muscles flexing as white foam lofts a resounding voice urging it toward the sea.

the creek high,
       stones scrub
themselves clean.

A dog trots with a muddy stick in its mouth, each neuron barking a version of itself on the run. Wet and gloomy, I wonder if the first people who settled here brooded during the dark days of winter, especially when it's the first day of spring.

    "What a difference a day makes," a small mouth beneath a big cowboy head remarks.
    "What do you mean?" his friend replies.
    "It was sunny yesterday."
    "It's still sunny inside my head," the other man laughs.


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