I stop where cedar shadows fall
across the weathered rail,
and lean above the narrow draw
where water threads the shale.
It finds a seam the color
of old bone beneath the moss,
then slips between the sleeping stones
without a splash or pause.
The creek is scarcely wide enough
to trouble any map.
A branch lets go. A single leaf
drops through the sunlight’s trap.
It circles once in amber light,
then catches in a bend
where grains of sand, as bright as salt,
begin their patient wend.
Rain gathers breath from oak and fern
before it finds this place.
It turns faintly acid as it falls
against the limestone face.
Not all at once.
One crystal first.
One edge too small to see.
A hollow deepens grain by grain
beneath the sycamore tree.
A swallow skims.
The bridge holds still.
The afternoon grows warm.
Below, the water keeps its hand
around the selfsame form.
I watch it pass beneath my feet
with neither haste nor sound,
wearing through the living rock
the way roots enter ground.
—Iris Lennox
Curious about the history of the nearby landscape? Read Zombie Road: The Story Beneath Missouri’s Most Haunted Trail, an essay about Rock Hollow, Lawler Ford Road and the landscape beneath one of Missouri’s most famous legends.
Iris Lennox 