We spent summers there—
the small creek
that ran
through Froelich Park.
We would overturn countless rocks,
buckets and hands poised,
ready to catch
the crayfish that lived
in the
submerged mud.
They are like little lobsters,
but gray-white
in color and
smaller— they could fit in your hand.
The sun would tan our backs
as we sank the buckets in the stirred water
hoping to trap one.
And then we'd put the bucket in the pure green
grass, and wait,
'til the water settled.
Do you see anything?
the answer was always maybe
—kids have relentless hope
But we did catch them, and that made for
exciting times sitting on the
banks.
We'd take them home in the buckets—
water sloshing out onto
the hot blacktop.
I had an aquarium in the back porch
we'd layer the bottom
with gravel and
try to make it seem like home
for the crayfish.
