I grew tired of counting places,
leaving town a year too late. I’ve settled
now where the slow twining creek is clay

brown & ripples through the wildwood
like a wedding train. I grew tired
of counting places & so I turned to

stable shelter, prayed to tame my gypsy
course. I marked the proper names, studied
the bottom of the slow twining creek.

Burrowing mayfly, speckled hellbender.
Alabama cavefish.  In water, how their lacy-jelled
eggs trembled. I counted their places under

river rock & branch. Dreaming, grit-brown
water rolled over me like a wand
& in the slow twining creek I transformed

to slick-shelled mussels. Nudged
by dust & gravel bits, cradled by mud,
I spit pearls from trouble & count my place
in the slow twining creek & its slack embrace