After a storm in the night,
Old Woman Creek is high,
stirred thick with silt, a rich
cup of coffee with cream
spilling over its rim.
The bottom obscured, I wonder over
the muskrats, their crawfish prey,
the tiny schools of minnows.
In four steps, maybe five,
I’ll cross in tall rubber boots.
It might be thrilling if only
I’d stumble a bit, get a little wet.
At the edge of my yard,
my diminutive but intrepid expedition
I am Lewis or Clark fording
the Missouri, Snake or Columbia.
I know the footing is treacherous,
in shifting stones and current.
Therefore, I must be courageous
or at least feign an illusion.
David Sapp, writer, artist and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence grant and an Akron Soul Train fellowship for poetry. His poems appear widely in the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom.
