wanders on the last acre of a hill
with crooked flowing  turns like it tries to share
nourishment with every inch of ****
every root grows toward
on the corner where she turns the last
and heads down to the small waterfall
grows an oak
large as my dad when I was three
stately guards cross creek from turning away
from flowing in circles feeds the evergreens and every **** waiting down stream and all the fish
bristling
at all her banks.