Wolfe Park (version one)

I am 27 years old.
There is a pattern we follow.
I drive us to the creek.
We walk the trail together.
Each step becoming less and less us
and more water, water, mirra! mirra!
bird, tree, squirrel, air,
until, finally, we reach

creek bed

and
jump, splash, dive bite, tear run leap hop paddle, claw
did I say jump yet, jump jump jump

You let your sharper nature unravel it's pent-up tentacles
into every mouse hole, birds nest, trail head, eddy, hollow,
paper cup, cigarette butt, discarded condom, compass point

Pushing the boundaries of our mutual affection, once limited to touch
which now is limited to sight, but perhaps, too soon, whistle
come back, I am right behind you

And

In my younger days I too would have run this creek bed up stream
but now I simply must stop to divine meaning from the shape of mud and rock
We will both cross this pair of felled tree limbs
You, under the first, then I over it
You, over the second, and I under it (on hands and knees!)
Because I must to get to the other side,
Because you must to be young and alive.