Rik George writes

Rock Creek

Brown water pools 
behind tangled stick fingers 
clutching the river’s belly. 
Gold leaves swirl in the current 
where trout fan their gills. 
A squirrel chatters a warning. 
I toss a pebble at him. 
He scrambles up the tree. 
Thunder breaks a cloud
over the mountain peak. 
The trout leaps and plunges. 
Raindrops break the ripples 
he left on the pool’s surface. 
I shelter under a boulder 
while the storm spews its fury.

After the Storm -- James Ensor