Turn Twice at the Creek

A dead limb hangs over the creek, and on it a row of green parakeets sit side by side, talking. On your wrist the four white corners that mark your next step are on the water.

Hello, they say. Left at the bridge. Is it nine yet. Wait for me. Turn twice at the creek.

There is no bridge in front of you. You turn two points to the right, and the corners hop off the water onto the bank and stop on a square of dirt. You step, and step again. You follow the bank to a bridge, and the sound under your boots goes hollow. Planks. You cross with dry boots.

Left at the bridge, the birds say, and you turn left. Downstream the creek widens between the trees.

Behind you one of them says Wait for me. You stand still a moment for whoever said it first.