Claude Mulindi

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The Creek

The creek behind my grandfather's farm
hidden in the depths of the valley
I go to it seeking for answers

The hill I used to run down as a child
I now traverse carefully
Past the trees we planted, and the ones my father planted too

I arrive at the creek and crouch down to my knees
I cup my hands and fill them, anointing myself with its water
I look up at the trees and run my fingers along the bark
Tall towers, my ancestors ossified in timber

I cross the creek, leaving the farm behind me
And I begin my ascent out of the valley
Up the second mountain