it’s the rain that does it

makes me remember

the creek which folded into the grass where

our sloped backyard met itself and started the long journey

back up to the path across the way

 

the rain would flood the creek

and we

barely people yet

would slosh around

rainboots overflowing and positively

drenched so that the colourful rubberized

ponchos that mom had thrown over us dripped in

loud patterns like laughter at the joke of her good

gesture

 

one brother sitting in the water that eventually

led to a bigger pond where

in the springtime

we would hunt for tiny frogs

the size of my child fingernails

and then get checked for ticks because

frog hunting is dangerous work

 

my other brother picking through the

waist-high grass along the creek’s edge

sticking insects into a dirty little terrarium which we

never remembered to clean or take the pebbles out of after

its lodgers were released

(or deceased)

 

and me

watching

these two children

like fuzzy reflections of myself

from the large steppingstone in the

flooding creek

unsure whether to cry about my wet socks or to just

keep quiet and observe a while longer