At the low end of the field runs a creek flickering in and out of tree shadows, the color of steeped tea. I test the tension of an eddy and it dimples like fabric; I slide a hand into its cold glass glove and begin running my fingers over slick stones. The intent is to flip the right rock to send a crayfish scuttling out of its shelter in a small cyclone of silt. But even release does not disturb her.


~ by Anne Doe Overstreet on February 2, 2016.

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