July 2, 1982
It is a sweltering July day with tall grasses on either side
of the river gone pale from lack of rain.
The carp dabble at the roots near the shore while lazy
turtles bask in sun light on the backs of rotten logs, exposed by the unusually
shallow water.
Frustrated ducks swim from shore to shore in water so muddy
it might as well be mud, while overhead gulls scream in their desperate search
for food.
And I stand in the middle of the bridge staring down in my
own desperate attempted to make sense of it all.
I cross this same bridge even in my dreams, my reality
distorted by the reflected water, strange shapes stirring under the surface I
can’t quite make out.
Many things I’ve not seen before appear, especially near the
foot of the bridge, slimy uncomfortable things without legs that sliver up to
the surface of the muck for a moment then vanished again to resurface
elsewhere.
Even the carp tend to avoid these places, content to make
their livelihood nearer the shore, feeding at the roots of reeds or tr4ees or
off the gifts from god tossed off the bridge by speeding motorists.
The gulls won’t even feed off the slivering slimy creatures
of the deep, veering away suddenly after they have mistakenly plunged towards them
mistaking them for something wholesome.
Perhaps the carp, gulls and geese know about these deep
beasts when I do not, having learned hard lessons about the poisons they bear
from having fed off them or the poisonous green slime of the chemical plant pipes
out of which such creatures have evolved.
Sometimes, staring down, I shiver even in this heat and ache
to wake up the way I used to ache as a kid when caught in a nightmare, needing
to shed my life of these dark dreams, ridding the river of its questionable
fluids and its constantly dripping pipes of green to beautify my life, even
when I know down deep it can’t be.
I ache for the water to rise again, to cover over all this
so I can stare at a surface unmarred by slithering creatures and unstained by
evil green.
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