The Creek
by P.H. Wise

A girl sat cross-legged in the leaf-speckled grass
A faery's child, and full in beauty
Her long, red hair a mane of fire
And wild green eyes darted to and fro
As she strained to hear the voice of the creek
Over the roar of the generator

Over stone and under trees it ran
As tree-shadows shimmered in its stream,
The shimmering light of shaken shadows
beneath the poisoned sky.

The dignity of the earth has withered
but the roots of the mountains go deep.
The water flows as it always has,
and there yet lingers the echo of laughter in the woods.