Alberta Bancroft. Sunset Magazine, January 1905.
And there is never any room
To climb its banks, or go to ride
The paths that wind along its side.
It rises forty feet and drowns
The willows to their very crowns;
It rises up and overflows
And churns along the orchard rows
And carries off the land and trees
And tears at everything it sees.
In summer time no creek is there;
No water trickling anywhere.
The willow clumps stand tall and sweet
Like gardens in a shaded street;
And up above the willow tops
The overhanging orchard crops
Look down from every orchard row
To see what’s happening below.
I know they all are wondering where
The creek has gone that once was there.
My horse and I ride down the bed
With willows waving overhead.
We see the flowers on either side
And smell the clover as we ride,
And think how glad the creek must be
To be a-playing in the sea.