heading for Fishing Creek,
we are traveling at the speed of history.
Its pace is in men's breaths
and hardening bones
and lengthening limbs
as we start in the morning
and in the evening, we are white-haired
and large-knuckled.
Our joints rebel against the morning's cold air,
as cold and damp as the streams;
rock-filled, fish-laden,
fresh with frothy falls
as they tumble the long, but quick road
from Falling Rock
to Fishing Creek.
