On this cold fall morning, the city man has opened the fire hydrant on the corner.
I sit in the coffee shop sipping chai tea with a shot of pumpkin spice,
listening to songs about Jesus,
looking out the big window
at the water running down the street into the creek that runs along the trail where the black buggies are making their way into town.
I know it isn’t really any use to think this, but there is a part of me that longs to be within the water
glistening on the pavement
flowing away wherever gravity and the cracks tell me to go
splashing down upon the rocks
caressing the dark bodies of the brook trout darting in the shadows
past the Walmart and on into the Killbuck
to dissipate against the cattails
far away from here
where I sit
belly warm as the mug in my hand
watching water flow down the street
outside the big window.