Influenced by the Creekology*

The beer cans decorate my dulled land.  I’m jaded by the un-bothered creekers.  Cigarette butts speckle my ground like confetti on New Year’s Eve in NYC.  

I flow rapid as I turn corners, slapping against rocks, carrying the beer cans of those too arrogant to bring back their own trash; allowing my minnows to swim in and out cutting their fins and scales on the aluminum forcing their crimson into my waters.

The tulips and daffodils that have been planted for me try to bud every spring, but are normally stomped down by visitors who stumble their way back missing my trails and making a ruckus waking my flowers from their slumbers.

At least I have my dedicated creekers.  The ones who actually care about me and organize the cleanups, even though they know it was not them who left their old cups to fester in the sun.  Nor were they the group that sharpied my rocks with names and poorly drawn pictures.

I have been here for years to assist the new college kids to finding their batch of friends.  I have seen many come and go but I have always taken the satisfaction of knowing I am helping  young adults when they need a place to be left to their solitude.
I watch the poets drinking their beers jotting down their thoughts it notebooks that will never be read, the photographers that dip around me and take their pictures.  

They hang around and listen as the warm breeze rustles the earth around me until the time comes where they pack up Their trash in their back packs and turn to walk up my paths, just leaving the other filth behind them.

And for that, the ones who appreciate me
are even still

no better 
than anyone else.