On a warm autumn afternoon
the call of the creek drifted up
from the golden woods like a pungi
where upon I took my walking stick
and began a trek along the banks.
With the trickle and bubbling of rainwater
from uphill, the runoff played a lively tune
keeping time with the dancing falling leaves.
And suddenly like an apparition, he appeared.
He was hunting, slipping and sliding, twisting
and weaving through the wet slate-grey rocks
a fisher, a weasel? no, a sleek river otter
“printing the stones?” maybe, but more like
oiling the ecological wheels of the stream.