White Rocks

The water in these Ohio streams flows hurriedly through,
a mother dashing through the supermarket two minutes to close,
snatching up crayfish and stray branches in its rush,
barreling through the crowd of loitering stones
using its clear, cool blood to rinse the years away until the white faces of children
peer out from the craggy surface of the rocks
infant-new, infant-clean, infant-blessed.

I lay down in the creek to wait.