To be the same as the creek bottom
is their desire, the nymphs
that glue stones to their backs
and so appear invisible.
As always new water passes over.
What a wonder to be the creek bottom
for almost eternity.
Some might call it a prison to carry stones.
Those may have long lives in bodies of feathers,
or travel in long grasses,
but those at the bottom,
one day they grow wings
beneath the green shadows of leaves,
then rise up to the sky,
veined wings
shimmering in sunlight for a day.
And myself at the creek
near water and birds,
walking in this house of bones,
this muscle house with nothing to move me
but five toes,
a heel,
a sole,
and hidden wings.