The river is a strong brown god.
T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
roiled by last night’s storm,
muddied and defiant,
rainbowed with the slick from barges,
a dwindling traffic
now that the mills are closed.
Still, there are the power plants,
fossil fueled and bursting at the seams,
a grid in perpetual overload.
This river is hardly a god,
not even a candidate
for sainthood, more like
a fallen angel, this keeper of secrets.
Stolen cars, bodies floating at the dam;
Pike Island would confound
Savage in the time of Pterodactyls,
Still feral though confined, subdued but untamed,
you have made us the builders of bridges.