Cow Creek

What we called a crick,
no wider than a standing leap
one side to the other,
a rat snake stretched in pasture sun,
kinks shear as paper cuts where
the water fought to go straight.
We flipped cow patties
with pocket knives
for worms that writhed
on hooks bounced
with a neat underhand
from grass into the water
upstream from a bend, floated
to where we imagined brook trout
sieved the current
waiting in their element
the way that the pasture bull
watched us with tiny eyes
while we walked the twisting water
among his swishing, farting cows,
just this side of his allowance,
learning to mind our shadows
so as not to spook
the skeptical moment

~
find matt