After the rain the park creek turns into a street. Dark wet stone for asphalt, gold leaves for the lights, the water sliding through like traffic that never stops. I come down here at night when the city noise gets into my chest and won't leave. The leaves are the only color, orange and yellow, lit from underneath like a shop sign. They lie on the rocks in small piles, whole families of them, washed down from somewhere uphill. The rocks are black and shiny with water, each one holding a piece of the sky. No neon reaches this far into the park. We don't need it. The trees brought their own. The water moves slow and dark over the stones, carrying one leaf at a time toward the storm drain, toward the river, toward everything. I stand on the bank and let the sound of it wash the week off me. Some nights the whole city is too loud and this one small street of water is the only quiet room left. I stay until my shoes are soaked. Then I walk back in, still hearing it. #creekwalk #autumnleaves #citypark
