The Creek

In the coolness of Winter, clean clear water gurgles down from the hidden mountain. And in the strangle hold of Summer the soft grass shifts to a broken brown, and the dogs hide in the shade of the shoe-shaped tree, cut to fit around the powerlines. The flow thins. Only a trickle remains and the birds drink when they can. And the children laugh as they race home to the house, built from tin and wood, just up from the creek. -Billy Allen