Spring Creek

In the Spring it is trout in a shadowy hole, That lure me back to the creek; Its quiet beauty is balm for my soul; The waters a sermon speak.

In Summer it is berries big and sweet; The lazy drone of the bees; The forest creatures I so often meet, And the fragrance of every breeze.

In Autumn it is the roar of a gun; The startled, elusive deer. The pride in a trophy sportingly won, When season’s end draws near.

In Winter it is trap-lines long and cold, The return to my warm log camp; The adventure stories which at night are told, By the light of a flickering lamp.

All nature’s wonders seem to speak, Calling, calling me back to Spring Creek.