The creek called lost was obviously not

as it was clear on the sign and in all the minds
of everyone she knew. If lost, then how could it be found 
to name? Better then called known, as in all knowed

the way through the forest of the valley floor 
to water that occupied a bed willingly. The girl
got off the beaten path and made her way indirectly

like a song along its staff, like flames in a face of fire, 
which only a certain type of person
can see, one amused to no end come an evening,

no more lost than you or me. The radio speaks
of a whole week of mercy in a city across the sea, a city 
inside a city unlike any other city.

This happens every quarter century or if called,
and this is a call, specifically. The girl likes how water 
in its bed never has to say please. It can rise and fall

according to its own volume, wearing edges of stone
or taking a small tree that has fallen to carry for a spell. It can 
braid limb with limb until a net takes form to catch cans

and other bright things that people come to take from time 
to time, such cleaning a remission from the sins
of the world. A body of water reflects the sun like nothing else can,

especially when its hips are wide. They bear weight
like a child hooked on one side. He’s much too old to carry, 
but she’s doing it, him looking up, all eyes without a word.

Read more from Issue 21.2.