It flows sideways and by us,
the takes hard turn against immovable
granite ridge there eons before us,
then under a bridge. Rapids,
little ones, churn while it turns.

This is what I like —
Spring, deep, blue, deep and blue,
snowmelt heavy over just green grass,
stringing through the thicket,
heaving past the Halal farm.

Every greenhouse gains on the April
air. Then, there, through the ‘Ville,
past an unnamed hill, under the foot
path frozen still, a few weeks ago,
then slow around the trailer park

that flooded a few years ago.
Vacant lots now square the bend
and frame the unmowed field. We lose it
here. But then, down, a few miles west
of town, it’s dark water is found

meeting a murky, warmer brook
that hooks beneath the abandoned
low trestle. We mean to cross it,
but haven’t. All this before
stagnation before the dam below 

a satellite hamlet and offshoot church.
It slows to a ready lurch. This time
of year is special. It pours over
the spillway, scours clean the gorge,
then churns north away from the road,

out of sight — tonight we ride
together, talk, laugh, the day,
what we did or didn’t say,
a dream, a thought, then a trickle
from the south meets again at the bend

there, at the old Cornwall viaduct,
our friendship tendril roots stuck
to the iron lattice (one foot anchors
to Schunnemunk Ridge, still strong
because the mountain is.)

This is what I like — memories
of our picnics with iced tea
and a reuben, sticky heat, dress clothes,
bare feet. The creek sneaks below
in the valley, carving the scene.

At flood stage now, a mile down,
it shoots through the slough,
carving the silt walls down. Pines
shatter or hang on by their dish of roots.
An old town, old mill, ancient industry,

crusts away beneath an electric
amazon truck above, hovering.
From there, I’m not sure where it goes.
But, I know it flows into the Hudson.
I’ve seen the delta, but only on my map