Creep and crow.

I´m an insect, I´m a willow.
I´m walking near the dry river beds.
The ones that meant stone throwing battles with friends when you were young.
The ones that you wallowed in when nowhere else would hold your desperate anguish.
The autumn hideout, where the first frosts wouldn´t reach.
Where the algae stained rocks tranced you through high school regrets.
Where dry leaves would catch and rot into the spaces.
Where you crept and crowed under the influence of some local hallucinogen.
Where the bullies chased you to before you gave them the slip...
And where you plotted a vengence sharp and fit.
You´d creep and crow, the shade of sycamores and willows would hide you, in the sunlight, in the moonlight and when you´d lost your senses altogether and round the bend past midnight.