The creek isn’t cruel by not knowing my name, though I’ve known its name my entire life. 

On walks, I follow its voice not asking it to know me, for I’m okay being a stranger. 

The creek doesn’t need to know my name even during the loneliest times, when snow blankets its banks, when trees block the wind, and when there’s a stillness reaching beyond quiet. 

It still sings a melody I’ve memorized. 

There are times I wish I could sing like the creek. Perhaps, that’s why I seek its consonance while living downstream, where names are common among a rushing river that is ceaseless in its desire to reach the ocean.