I am ankle deep in an Appalachian creek
and I feel vulnerable.
Thick mud creeps between my toes and
cloaks my soles,
two uninvited guests traipsing through
the Haus of Crayfish.
I am anything but swift
as I lift stones with prodding fingers and
prepare to meet another whose
life has led him here;
to this moment,
to these murky waters.
We breathe and are still,
pausing to assess each other’s threat;
my acrylic pinchers painted red,
his brittle legs and beady eyes.
Like all awkward meetings
no one makes a move,
so we sit and watch a while,
wondering what the hell we’re doing
in this Appalachian creek.
