Creek

The creek still moves
under silver willow shade,
slower, lower now.

A weathered warning sign
leans to the bank
as if thirsting
for melt from snow
that never fell.

Beyond the cottonwoods
windowless walls
exhale frost.

Yet, they insist
on drawing blue lines
across dry maps,
while praying
for rain.

About the creek

I wrote this poem after taking a recent photograph at a creek where I spent a lot of time when I was younger. Seeing it again alarmed me. Each year, the creek seems to run lower and drier, yet we continue to expand and build in Utah while refusing to make meaningful changes to protect our water. Even with clear warnings around us, we keep acting as though the land will always provide more.

Start caring

If this poem speaks to you, consider entering my poetry contest, Start Caring. I am starting small with a modest $25 prize, but the real goal is larger than that. I want poems that push back against apathy and pay attention to the people, places, and problems we too easily ignore.