Stop! your bawling repinement of
the minor pickles in the crossing of this wetland:
yes, on the mucky downgrade, you are prone
to skid, face it, onto your ass, my precious,
squealing pule, arms outflung rather nancily;
or mincing the mossy roundrock, wincing
that your feets might eternally bruised be; unlikely,
anyway, that long. Constrain your nettle thrashing, son.
And if a dry brown cane of blackberry rip thee
all along thine calf to bring up bright black blood, Wait,
why are we here? No, really, stop a second,
Reflect: redwing blackbird, tired of attack,
sings his heart out on the reed; frogs are chorus;
the essential creek is, after all, cool, simple, stony.