sinking

the creek turned to mud again each year
in the forest that lived between 
soybean & corn fields
a smooth ganache kind of brown
i never stepped in it back then 
dad & me would linger by
the edge
perched on sinking stones
watching the flies glitter 
in the chicken broth air 
waving our arms to herd the flies
away from our faces 
for a few seconds at a time
i thought they might replace
my skin with flies
the image of white noise
i'm stepping in the mud creek now
my bare feet
disappearing into muck
ankle-deep 
i had always wanted this 
we caught frogs in the creek
when water trickled through
from some unknown source 
maybe it was god with a clay pitcher
a barefoot girl
emerging from the soybean fields
to re-fill the stream
dad would crouch 
on a sinking stone
hands poised statue 
the frog poking his nose
out of the water
thinking about mud & god
under a leaf & then he'd pounce
grip around slick body
frantic blinking 
wriggling 
i was always scared for the frog
felt dad's hands around my body
my own skin wet & amphibial 
a wanting of mud
me a frog in my dad's dry hands
no the frog in my dad's dry hands
& we sat on sinking stones
but that was the past
there's no water now
& i'm a frog thank god
stream given in to mud
me giving in to mud sinking 
this is where the frogs go for winter
mud up to my waist
mud up to my neck 
breathing mud the flies 
glittering above the muck
the girl with the pitcher
holding out an open hand
& waiting for rain