There’s admittedly a little thrill
when I stumble on the river’s name
in a poem or a story.
I pass it every week,
its tributaries every day,
and while I often bemoan my town,
I love my valley
even though there’s racism and poverty
and not enough art.
I love the stark winters
and the lush summers,
the roadside stands of farmers
every few miles. Abundance
in what feels like end times.
Comfort, quiet and strong,
like mountains that take eons to move.
Pies on countertops
and forests every few miles.
The colors of the sky broken up
by hills and trees, the reflections
shimmering in dozens of creeks
like the sequins of an aged showgirl,
slowly shaking her stuff.
There’s little bustle along the river
and the trails are usually overgrown
but plain enough to follow,
like we do when we repeat history.
The river is long enough
to hold rambling stories and
if you are lucky, it will carry away
worries as easily as fallen feathers.
The Word Rummager 