at day’s end—in mid-summer—amid life’s hurry.
In the morning feral cats and at dusk the raccoon
    drink by your streaming edge, but we
        would never drink your waters

for the farms above have fertilized you beyond
human delectation. Elegant horses in paddocks,
    cows in common pastures, do not appreciate
        you more than we, who only admire

your good looks and voice—like Lynda, that blonde
Parisian soap-star from Perth, whose perfections
    were as sweet as Sauternes at evening
        by your side, O Wheeler Creek.