Along the Susquehanna

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.