Down street, the falls add static with their constant hiss, white water tumbling down its six narrow steps to the stone-strewn bottom where ducks and geese add their complaint about the lack of fish.
Even the frisky swallow complain, stirred up into their spirling reaction by the repeated rumble of trucks in and out of the the mills, each heavy-wheeled vehicle bumbling across the potholed bidge iiiin a series of whacks, cracks and thunderings. Perhaps the birds complain about the constant rain of dust, coating the surface of the water with the remains of rust.
The truck drivers made few friends among the feathered population when they lean on their hors to make slow-moving drivers hurry through the light on the Garfield side of the bridge, or scream obsenities out the window so shrilly that even the sea gulls shudder.
Yet in some ways, I understand their frustration and the moody overtones of the birds and trees. We all fee infuriated by how slow the ice takes to go, tree struggling to push out their buds, birds impatient for the fruit those buds will bear.