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  • I smell warm. I bat a bug away. I hear the sweet music of water pouring from a

    Past the redwood my eye flows to an orange-green pool. Why orange? Why green?

    The concrete contains the creek’s strawberry creek-ness. Why strawberry? Where
    are they now?

    Is that watercress? Would I dare taste it after it’s been cooked in what seems to be,
    in this pool, at this time, a bacterial frappé?

    I know there are rats down there and I envy them.

    A young guy walks by on the far side of the creek carrying a boom-box playing Run
    DMC. Can we really be nostalgic for the '80s?

    Come back, my sweet. Don’t be distracted. Come back to the sound of the water
    reminding us of where we came from and where we are.

    In birth, our great wet journey into life, we come to love its sound.

    I fall gently into the murmur of youth and the ever-running water.
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