Mill Creek at Plainville

by Nancy Carol Moody

The water in its ancient turning

churns its foam over jut and boulder,


augurs new and infinite departures.


This, a story that’s been told before—

upstream not a place


but a way of pushing against yourself.


A rock does not bear a name,

but knows enough to say, Make something


of yourself by resisting me.


Water like an eel, sidewinding the current.

Water like cling wrap’s crinkled obfuscation.


Water like a whistle, boring through.


Eventually something has to give.

The unimpeachable leaf will tell you


how the water only takes.