Lost Trail Creek slowly opening up in the early spring.
I remember the sounds of open waters
Sitting by an open brook
The gushing rushing spilling stream
Lying there listening
Feeling my face on the cool damp moss covered ground
I remember the feel of my feet in the water
Stepping over slick rocks
Chilling tingling brisk and free
Standing with my head thrown back to the sun
Digging my toes in the gritty sand beneath the waters
Isn’t it funny the things we miss?
Keeps us longing for what is next
Anticipating the seasons
Looking around the next bend
How do I remain in the here and now
When memories of yesterday and visions of the future feel so good?
I yearn for open water
Creeks running rivers flowing
Not the muffled sound of the river beneath the ice and snow
But the rush roar trickle and drip, drip, drip
I long to float languidly on waters again