Journey

Take a journey down the river.

Picture a shallow stream
Maybe ten feet across
And who knows how long

In summer, the water runs low
on the rocks
and the pebbles
and it leaves the tops dry and grey,
sometimes mottled with brown

A tree, felled some time ago
lies across the stream
a bridge between worlds
one side;
the woods
                   the other;
                   the field,
Now more of a meadow;
its purpose for keeping goats
and cows
and horses
now obsolete

In the summertime it's kept shorn
without disturbing the deer that come visiting
and the woodchuck
that lives beneath an old tree

Look back across the field;
beyond the low-hanging oaks
beyond the three little stones
beyond the tired old barbed-wire fence
and down the steep bank
return to the stream.

It is more of a raging river
in the winter, when the ice builds
and, come snowmelt, the water tumbles over the old bridge
whisking away the gravel there
and causing more trouble than it's worth

The gentle and sharp curves
and dips
                and turns
lead the eye on a journey,
wondering where it goes

Author's Note

A poem about the river next to my house.