Creeks

I have a special affinity with creeks. As a young boy, I would spend most of my summers, and many other weekends at my gramma's farm. Her property was on the edge of the Nipomo mesa, with a creek at the bottom of the steep side of the mesa.

 Often alone, I would explore that creek for hours. I knew every log and pool along that short stretch of creek, and would climb up into the oaks and cypress trees that lined the creek. I drank the water, caught frogs and snakes, watched the birds flitting through the willows, and only left to eat dinner or visit my gramma's cookie tin.

 I often thought of myself as an Indian, tracking small mammals, sneaking up on my uncle as he worked the bottom land around the creek, and sometimes found arrowheads and bowls of my adopted "ancestors."

 I still love every shady, boulder-lined creek ecosystem I walk along, and I never will forget my creek roots.