How To Write A Story

The stream leaves the pond
just above this spot,
rolls along picking up speed,
then comes to this plunge
of only a few feet.
It has cut a cold pool 
into the ground on its swift way
down and south.
I stop here and bathe my feet
in the stinging water, snow melt
on white sore skin.
When it’s been long enough,
when it becomes too much cold to bear,
I will dry off and re-don
my socks and boots
to continue following water
out of the mountains.

There is a story of how I got here
to the mountains this morning.
This isn’t it. There will be
a story of how I get
out of the mountains. This isn’t it
either, not yet. It’s not even
a story yet, no beginning, no end.  
It’s a pool cut into the ground
after a plunge of
a few feet. Enough, for now;
when it isn’t, it may become
part of a story about seeking
enough, perhaps about finding it.
Right now, though, 
the water’s cold

and it’s fine just as it is.


About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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