San Carlos Creek.
Every bough bends before wind's
waiting touch, saying - here, come this way,
bend your breath here.
Each tree beside the creek has its' own
ritual dance, each beckon sky
swaying thirsty green tresses,
inviting breezes within their tapestry
of whispers, a mating courted.
Wind is pleased to follow.
The stone in my palm is my hand.
The fallen leaf beside my foot is my foot.
Below the embankment a shallow creek
while devoted to its' unknown sea,
yet lingers beside me, eddies
rustling over sunken dull yellow leaves -
so many coins cast into blue-green swirls.
My gaze comes to rest beside this creek.
The water is my eye.
Everything that follows, in turn was first.
I am first chosen to follow this dream.
The dream is in Spirit's hand.
The dream is Spirit dreaming itself awake.
And I am pleased to follow.
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