Vol. V, No. 3, Winter 1992

Fall 1987

Saturday Morning

by Lloyd Young

I stand by Sutton's Creek,

sun-warmed in early morn,'

Secure the place

a billion years

have carved.

Around me rise the canyon walls.

The dogwood spreads its fragile lace

below the pine's high point

to where my God had once

been found.

The day is still,

but for the water's rush

and three hounds upon a scent.

The Dixes live by Sutton's Creek;

a hundred years of gentlefolk

whose lives are tuned to

nature's pulse.

A child upon a mother's breast.

I stand by Sutton's Creek

and feel the peace it gives

to those who stay,

and turn away.

I am one of those

who go.


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