At the Creek

I used to bury the hatchet in the creek
Behind the neighbors' yards
Under the brush of unkempt space
Where the coyotes came to drink
And us children would run away
To hide from the heat
And pursue hidden desires
When alone I would return 
In silence to contemplate my life
To scatter my mistakes in the pools
Of stagnate water, held in place
By the drought and geologic depressions
In such a way that they never left
Floating in the continuous mess
I seemed to bring every time I arrived
With every wrong move, I found new solace
That each step I took was to walk away
And crouch behind the willows
Of the creek, yearning like the hopes I held inside.

Published by Bryn Montgomery

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