Eagle Creek

the afternoon (laziness) is marked by exaggerated hypnotic
rhythms of ripples — creases spanning through
dark water reflecting blue then green, brown then gray
tension comes only with an occasional fishing line
slicing wave patterns in midair and dropping stone
heavy into the creek below (gentle splash and submerge)

averting our gazes from goose droppings carefully
left on the bank, small piles laying land mine fashion in grass
three of us sat, triangle with the dog in the middle
creating boiled-down reminiscences on lined paper
breathing in mesquite smells from a grill yards away
watching one water bird, an island at our end of the creek

she floats and honks responses to a family busy
baiting hooks very near the water, they communicate
only in casting and reeling their lines, not catching anything
their toddler (bored with the sport) runs wild up the hill chasing
random animals holding a red ball in his tiny brown hands

someone should be watching him we concur, shaking heads
he loses his grip on the red ball
it tumbles down
and, as if tethered, he follows it
dangerously to the edge, and I wonder

if he fell, would they keep casting and reeling
saying nothing until the creek was still again?