the deepening ground

I would have loved to share the thirty second clip I took of Wolf Creek panning from the dam in the image above down through the smaller dams my sons and I created, on to the waters that slow as they pass the tire swing so you could more fully experience the sight and soundscape of this Sunday afternoon in May. But that capability doesn’t come with my plan. So a picture will have to be worth a thousand words. And you will have to allow your imagination to lean in close to hear the sound of the water playing through those stones.

Wolf Creek rejuvenates my soul though I frequently exhaust and batter my body in the process. The three hours that passed in a moment last Sunday awakened my dormant poetic voice like a creature coming out of hibernation. Almost immediately, the first line came to me as I refit the tumbled stones in the dams like repairing the dry stone walls that line the English countryside. Winter’s bloated exit spilled over the banks and up into my yard, forcing over these dams and strewing branches all over the creek.

Through the many iterations of this poem that began on Sunday, I developed a conversation with Wendell Berry, Mary Oliver, and Heraclitus. To fully appreciate what I have here, you must read the works I allude to in my poem (just follow the hyperlinks). It’s all part of the larger conversation of life through literature. In fact, may I recommend you print out these poems and take them with you to a quiet stream, some sanctuary where the symphony of nature drowns out the cacophony of the modern world, and learn the language of water.

The Language of Water

By Vincent H. Anastasi 2024

I have set the creek's crooked teeth,
let loose the latent liquid speech
that purls through piled stones:
"The impeded stream is the one that sings."
I have cleared the twiggy debris
that clots the flow, collecting brush
where snakes sun themselves camouflaged
through lazy afternoons.
I have heard the call to return
to the community of feather, fin, and flesh,
baptized anew into the faith
that "no man ever steps into the same river twice
for it is not the same river,"
nor am I the same man.

Life demands attention
and these living things —
        the crayfish and trout,
        the leeches and snakes,
        the hooded mergansers
        and the great blue heron —
they know the seasons
and what the water speaks:
"I am part of holiness."

In time passing, time suspended,
I transcend the grip of modernity,
and when I leave Wolf Creek
and slip on shirt and shoes
to do common service,
I go scraped and bloodied,
abrasions on my hands and knees,
the leech bite on my heel
a reminder running red,
but more whole and at ease
for having stewarded the stream
these three hours on a Sunday afternoon
and learned the language of water.