I imagine the cold, clear water below
flows thru my veins, for I have waded it,
seined minnows & crayfish from its ebbs
& learned to swim in the deep pool above
Seventy Six Falls.

A finch lands in the sycamore above me & calls
a love song into the air. He is my kind of
poet. Dew on fescue & spider webs
fades quickly in early sunlight. I pause & sit
for a moment, pondering the dancing, lyrical flow.

-Rudy Thomas