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Creek water runs
as muscle belly, rolling,
extending from metamorphic joints,
flexing deeply in whorls,
lathering where it meets much
resistance.
A woman breaks its surface
with one white toe
and nearly tips.
She trails one hand
on the gleam of creek skin,
over form in its passing.
It is a breach
in her Sunday picnic,
is love or its messenger,
this summer tributary:
insubstantial, muscular as a tongue.
