Epigraph: This poem isn't just about distance or speed, but about the discoveries along the way.
An egret wades, still as a whisper,
In the reeds where the water hums.
A Canada goose plucks at the grassy meadow,
Its white feathers shine in the sun.
Walking, riding, gliding free,
I trace the creekside's secret song,
Where burrows hide and branches cradle,
Where brush piles shelter hidden wildlife along the way.
Here, the wild ones weave their stories,
Competing for berries, nuts, and seeds,
For grasses, leaves, and living prey
To feed themselves, to feed their young.
The creek, a ribbon, silver-bright,
Refreshes, reflects, renews,
A passageway for silent travelers,
From mountain peaks to ocean blues.
Through oak-clad hills and golden fields,
Past houses, towers, humming streets,
They move unseen, yet ever near,
Where city's edges and wildness meet.
And high above, the feathered roamers,
Like drifting clouds, take to the sky,
Seeking new and distant havens,
Under sunsets rolling by.
Not all is seen, some life is hidden,
Veiled in shadow, thick with green.
Yet signs remain a track, a feather,
A gnawed branch where teeth have been.
To know this place, you must be still,
Not just to look, but truly see,
A world alive, a world connected,
A neighborhood of mystery.
