Maple Leaves Piled in the Dry Creek Bed

Early fall in the canyon—

dry, empty creek beds bridged

with maple leaves by the armloads—

the warlike trenches packed with yesterday’s sun,

tomorrow’s dirt, and the day’s energy.

On our bikes, we’d hop

off the ramp with a glide-drop,

a soft landing—the goal for the day.

Ending wet-matted and tattered,

but like the leaves—thoroughly used up, by hard play.

The climb out was a bit of a slippery ascent,

so strong muscles were needed for prolonged reaching

toward snapping roots and short dirt-hold grips,

and it is funny to me that I do not remember

thoughts about hitting protruding rocks

or a creek’s edge.

Maybe it’s not surprising for kids full of unfettered days

and no parents near, with the only real fear

being that the day would go way too quickly

before it was time for big meals of good cheer.

Today, I still get such a bolt,

when the leaves on the trees turn yellow

and fall to the ground where I live.

Though I’m too old now to have a second go.

I offer a smiling embrace

when I think back to those days

full of all the new seasons’ joy

and all the fearless, free-falling flow.