The Big Creek Greenway

Lyrics

Saturday. Eight a.m.
The air is still cool, seventy-two degrees.
You start just past the parking lot.
A clean ribbon of blacktop.
And I put my feet on you.
The first mile is always the same.
The whisper of tires on asphalt.
The ghost of a rail line underneath.
You carried something heavier then.
Now you just carry us.
And then the wood begins.
The creak and give of the planks over Big Creek.
The slow brown water moving below.
A smell of damp clay.
Of last year's magnolia leaves turning back to soil.
This is the part I wait for.
The crossing.
A red stroller rolls by.
A father pushes, half-asleep.
A runner, all focus and breath.
I remember the little silver box they installed in 2019.
It counted one hundred eighty thousand of us that first year.
One hundred eighty thousand quiet journeys.
You don't say a word.
You just hold the weight.
And then the wood begins.
The creak and give of the planks over Big Creek.
The slow brown water moving below.
A smell of damp clay.
Of last year's magnolia leaves turning back to soil.
This is the part I wait for.
The crossing.
I wonder about the hands.
The ones who set these boards.
Who drove the nails flush.
The quiet work of a Tuesday afternoon.
The Spanish words spoken over the hum of a generator.
A name I'll never know.
A signature left in the solid feel beneath my feet.
Eight miles south to Alpharetta.
I won't go that far today.
Just to the next bridge and back.
The creek keeps moving.
The wheels keep turning.
I'll see you next week.
Same time.