67. Cow Creek

When I went out, Cow Creek let me in.

The creek hid me. The creek taught

me words and to worship its thrust.


The willow would announce spring.

Catkins called me into the wet.


April was water spilling into the yard,

creeping up, turning my rivulet torrent.


When ejected indoors by wind and rain,

the creek still whispered in a vestigial voice

words like home that bathed me in shelter.

— Allison Berry

Allison Berry was born and raised in Pittsburg, Kansas.  She received her bachelor’s degree from Cornell College and her master’s from Pittsburg State University.  She lives in Pittsburg with her wife and son, and she teaches English and Women’s studies at Pittsburg State University.


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