Spring Creek, 11 a.m.

"How can a bird that is born for joy

sit in a cage and sing?"  

--William Blake

I swallowed it last Spring

on a chilly day, the grey sky stretching lazily above me.

A tiny pebble pushed deep down

--grist for my future, I told myself, 

like silt, both fine and unrefined.

Slowly, it burbled its way back up again

emerging just this morning,

while I tried valiantly to keep my balance,

 my haunches now wet from the cool spring-fed waters

And there, with one fist closed over a handful of tiny snails,

and the other fishing for a sandal,

I stumbled from the waters,

christened by the shine of a hundred tomorrows

Laughing, my clothes

heavy with the wet scent of dead things,

I climbed up the bank,

net in hand,

lugging with me this life of mine,

made new by a lone pebble now pointing a way
in the road,
a way that felt new to me.