To sit by the creek on the first warm day of spring.
To bag slimy garbage fished from the rivulets on the end of a long stick.
To watch the children make cookies from creek mud.
To dam the water with stones and leaves.
Where else would I rather be?
Working for tips, working for accolades?
Hoping for a promotion, yearning to leave a small deep scratch on a glass ceiling with the tiny diamond of my life?
To paint with mud on a stick shelter they have built to house their immortal creativity.
I am asked to draw water from the stream.
To draw it over and over.
To stir the mud with a stick.
I would paint my own naked body with this fresh mud before I would return to any prior life.
To be, just right now, infant spring.
To be content.
