Guess you’d call it seasonal, dry
in summer’s drought, iced-over
in winter, this 150’ of stream
I own. Last spring, a red-shouldered
hawk hunted in it. He nailed a frog, presented
it to his mate watching from a poplar limb.
Hidden from beneath the bank’s overhang,
a blue bird wetted each flight feather,
finished its bath in the redbud.
Yesterday, the brook was a black slash
border lined by snow. Two or three at a time,
goldfinches dipped into an ice-free pool
to drink. Barking up a storm, the dog
pointed to the creek. Cocking its head,
a great blue heron plodded
down the sand bar.