A Way by Water

In the basement this morning
a water drop squeezed through
a pipe joint and fell. The basement
smelled, it was musty, in two minutes
another drop formed. Not much of a
leak, a wrench and dab of white
lead would stop it.
Down in the field where I went
to check on a crazy sow who rammed
through the fence to have her pigs,
in the rain, I noticed the creek.
The water ran freely, bounced over
rocks, divided around a sunken log,
slid under the fence, not tamed
by obstacles. Something welled up
in me that felt kin to water and
before I thought I rode bareback
on a whale, rubber boots and all,
down the creek, into a river and on
to the ocean. When they surface,
these deep-mind beasts scare the
hell out of me— the sow had eight pigs,
laid on one, seemed content in the mud.
I went back to the workshop for a
wrench and dab of white lead.