The creek slows, thick green moss floats
and fades beyond the shadow’s reach
of sycamores – and at its edge, a bleached
white blanket shrinks upon the cobbles
to conceal an urgent world that cooks
and feeds upon this July moment.
Between rocks I watch Kim Jong II
claim a damp spot, antennae flailing.
Between two others, the Hezbollah
and Israelis tangle on their sides.
Tiny nameless creatures scramble
into dark caves, yet our nature teems
before my eyes. Soon the creek will stop
and pool in places to wait for winter rain
where nervous people will scurry like bugs.