I think about when I was young
And waded in the creek for fun.
Across the creek was an old foot log,
There I'd watch for big, green frogs.

I would wade in the early Spring,
Listening to the red birds sing.
I would wade in the cold of Fall,
Hearing little crickets call.

Ever since I was small and meek
I would trudge along that old creek.
Picking up small, shiny stones,
Ignoring calls to come on home.

Times I'd see the creek running fast
After a Spring rain had past.
Or it wouldn't be running at all,
Choked with leaves of early Fall.

The foot log was a test of skill.
Of walking across without a spill.
Trying to keep feet from running amiss.
Not miss a board as I'd watch the fish.

I made many trips with a faithful dog
Who shared my love of the old foot log.
Whenever I'd take off shoes and socks
She'd leap in, as I'd throw sticks or rocks.

Now I'm a bit older..over fifty-two!
And the foot log is no longer there, it's true.
But I'm not a bit ashamed to say
I still love to wade in a creek today!

Jane Ellen Slone ©
Revised 8-15-08
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