Creek Kingdom

We ran under spruce
where the black creek bent sideways
and forgot our names.
A frog flashed mud-green once,
then folded into water.
We called it magic.
Minnows wrote silver
under the skin of the pool
and broke every rule
our mothers had given us.
Don’t get soaked. Don’t go far.
Don’t touch dead things.
Don’t come home with leeches.
Don’t lose your brother.
The trees kept closing behind us,
branch after branch.
The North was not empty.
It was watching us breathe.
A stick became a sword.
A stump became a fort.
A creek became a border
we crossed anyway.
By supper, we came back
with wet socks, black knees,
and one frog story each.

No one believed us.
That is how kingdoms begin.