Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Eagles soar over their namesake marsh only once a year,
in the state marketed as “a great place to sleep!”
to those on cross-country road trips.
When they roost, eagle eyes might connect dots
that draw carp fingerlings between raindrops,
across flooded portages to meander toward Erie.
Before long, their massive filets could back-flip over Niagara,
like divers who catapult from Acapulco cliffs
with all their strength.
Here in the lolling headwaters, it’s awfully quiet in Lime City,
where the old canal that carved its artifice next to the real
waits smothered under buildings and concrete roadways.
When I put my ear to the ground
close to the banks of the Little River,
I’m not sure if I hear
the splash of thousands of fins on approach,
or these rivers, angry, twice invaded,
scheming to split what George Washington sought,
right down the middle.
~ Cynthia Gallaher ◦