She calls me in the early morning "Come on. Come on"
Pulls the shiny rubber boots from the Walmart bag.
"put your Wellies on and follow me" she says,
Heading down to the creek, the Caney Fork,

Swollen in the Spring, now knee-deep and drought-laden,
Here and there a dam of fallen logs and branches
Caulked and sealed with mud and leaves, resolute.
We take our saw and loppers down to the edge,

Wade on in till the water overtakes our boot tops.
Oh so cold, but soon our feet are numb as we begin
Unwinding the debris, sawing and cutting, determined,
Throwing or dragging every piece above the 
	high-water mark.

For two days we continue until the creek is clear.
Two years ago a fallen tree, surging on the Spring flood,
Wiped out the bridge downstream. Now, rebuilt,
It safely stands, danger-free. In this stream, 
	our hearts sing.

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Rushing river

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