The moss had known my name.
The creek whispered,
syllable by syllable over smooth stones.
The trees had never asked for much,
only presence – bare feet, open palms.

I baptized myself in shadows,
wandering dry creek beds
during summer droughts,
spoke to ghosts in the bark of a sycamore,
read gospel in the heat lighting.

Goldenrods bowed in prayer
under the weight of the sun,
honey locusts casts spiny shadows
along my path, and the gnarled Osage
leaned over the creek bed.
Turkey buzzards circled like questions
I never needed to answer.

And when night came down,
thick as creek silt,
the whippoorwill sang me gently to sleep.