Quarry Brook flows past
me sitting on a bank
right into the Atlantic Ocean
as I rub the dogs belly.
Brook Trout and a muskrat swim by.
Spotted Sandpiper. Tail bobbing.
Rising falling breeze. Hush of green
leaves filtering noonday sun.
Nothing is wasted in this perfect movement.
I tell myself not to measure or write it.
Know it. Remember it. That’s all.
But of course, I’ve gone and written it down.