I regularly go for walks out my front door, out of the subdivision, down the street, around the corner, turning and continuing up the semi-temporary gravel road, between the road barriers, passed the dead-end cul-de-sac of an adjacent subdivision, up the hill, left at the T, passed the first creek that rushes quickly underfoot – the road was built over it with the standard round metal rail to lean over and look down – off the sidewalk, onto the too-wide road between houses, right at the park – where the second creek trickles between overgrown grass that dips its tips into the water – think of my overgrown bangs flipping over the edges of my frames and bending down to drink – up past the playground, donated by the kinsmen, as many things are in this small town, around the bend, crossing the street to walk properly facing oncoming traffic, passed the few neighbours out on their strolls – for similar reasons maybe, or not at all – up to the intersection, cross the street, this subdivision is newer, more ‘affluent’, larger homes on smaller lots, sidewalks with street trees to beautify the neighbourhood and maintain its value – always attractive – stepping past fallen leaves collecting perfectly formed raindrops that magnify veins and make you wonder, one more bend to the left after a small incline, and there it is, the Malone Road entrance to Holland Creek Park. The pavement ends, turns to chunky gravel and here is where my pace quickens, knowing the exact number of steps until I’m there –
10 – down the hill
15 – the two paths meet
24 – the bench to the right
29 – down the illegal trail
36 – at the man-made dam
42 – fingers touch down – touching the water – the cool fresh stream carries its energy, its soul, its fairies past my fingers, swirling between, around and through.
where rivers are born 