The stream divided the field,
meandering through,
cutting one edge from the other.
Boxwoods, elders and willows
lined the slopes,
dead grass hung over the ledge,
lightly touching the water
as it coursed by.
Water moved between the banks
over field stones,
thrown in long ago,
logs cross to the other edge
at intervals.
I sit beside the brook
lingering.
A crow lounges in the tree
on the other side,
watching,
waiting.