My Creek

The cotton bolls cling to my denim thighs as I push through the old furrows of the earth. Plowed dirt finds cracks in my shoes and fills the spaces in between.

I smell layers of dirt, honeysuckle vine, cotton plants, and heat.

The insects sing to me in frustration as their wings flap on air with no lift, while my naked shoulders bear the weight of old sun.

That creek, my creek, is waiting for me.


It is shaded on both sides by huge old trees. I will see my cool wet place to sink my feet into the mud, while my soul hears running water and I know I am blessed.

For a wink of time, I escape where I am, whom I am, to be one with God.

Can it be any better, for me, right now?