City Creek is just a stone’s throw from home A downhill stroll. The little trek, nearly mandatory now, Both stirs the cells and tames the plagues du jour. “Creek,” uh, really? What a titanic misnomer this time of year This torrential runoff, A vernal symbol crash, A narcissistic grab of the arena, An annual etch on the wall it itself created. With age, I can resist the magnetic pull And take note of the pools That randomly form along the brazen wake These pools, like Don, a still voice, No bit part that, But that which spawns and sustains life. Norm Waitzman