the creek after the storm

i know what it is like
to be rushed with voices.
the old blood & the older blood.
we take leaves & send them
like ambulances into the water.
there are fish with more home
than yesterday. their memories
of the pounding deluge.
their knowledge that soon again
it will be gone. the drought 
last year that left them gasping
in the mud. why must the world
take us one such orbits?
when i am closest to the dunk tank
i consider what it would be like
to lay on my back & follow 
this bursting river? would we finally
find the creatures with our
backward faces? would the shadows
have hair? i know less
& less about escape these days.
i am more familiar with the process
of wading in. kiss the bark
on the trees. thank them for
their arms that burn in the guts
of the wood stove. i ask if the creek
prefers to be full like this or
to be parched? the water babbles
& laughs. as if it is even a question.
as if there is anyone who doesn't want
to wake up to find a head of hair
when you didn't have one. 
i do not go into the water because
i know if i did i would never come out.
would become a crayfish or,
maybe if the world was extra generous,
just a smoothing stone 
for the water to play with
on her fat beautiful tongue.