The Art of Creeks

When the sun sets,
the creek turns
shiny yellow,
which I paint.

When the moon
is in the sky,
the creek is shiny white,
which I paint.

Slithering water
keeps going,
keeps going.
While under
the water,
the shiny gold rocks live.
The water is their blanket.

The creek of coldness
shakes your hand
as it turns blue.
Quickly I pull out
with cold ripples
where I was.

The winter chills
the quiet creek.
That blizzard
rushed away
the noise.
I need the
Spring
to come.