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Murky water washing a stick downstream
a small wooden craft glides with a wobbly beam
animals crowd around, gurgle and drink
as the small branch makes its way to the brink

Covered in green moss it travels past a dam
beavors are working to clog and ram
the bough hurtles on through a narrow passage way
leaving the rodents working and leaving them at bay

The moon glows brightly in the black Autumn sky
a fish shoots upwards suspended as if to fly
the limb moves underneath the fishs tail
racing with the current, never stumling, never fail

The Creek groans aloud wth insects and birds
the sounds are abstract and often can't express them with words
the pond seizes up and stops the branch short
the cleavor beavers have created a well built fort

the fort angers me and makes me ponder
why on earth can't a brach just wander
go on its way and avoid the bend
go on a journey and make it to the end