Bridge Over the Unadilla

A river is always interesting.
It has a personality,
particularly a small river,
larger than a creek,
transparent in the shallows,
and dark in its brief depths
as the Unadilla with is secrets.
Are there fish?
A boundary once to the Indian Nations
in New York, the Unadilla
snakes through farm land
among dead falls of trees
and islands like continents,
where the suds linger in eddies
then float in rusty white clumps
as ice bergs in constant procession.
There is a lull,
then a few more clumps of rusty foam
appear from around the bend,
not to be denied.
Two vets meet in the middle
of the short bridge over the Unadilla,
pale in their green field jackets,
smoking filter cigarettes, they discuss
front end work on a pickup truck.
They stare at the Unadilla
with the dull eyes of men
who held their ground somewhere,
guts and muscle under the pallor.
"Wanna do the work at your place?"
"Yeah." The vet points to a house and flag pole
on the east bank.
A fisherman pulls up on an ATV.
"Any luck?"
"Oh I caught a few white suckers by that log."
A vet lifts his cigarette to the middle of his lips,
takes a pull then blows a cloud of smoke
satiated he contemplates the grey sky.
"I let 'em go -- all those suds."
A rusty clump drifts beneath the bridge.
"Not like when the Indians were here."
"No."



Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1485 times
Written on 2016-05-19 at 03:14

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Kathy Lockhart
You have created a powerful moving image of man and nature, of the shallow and the deep of both river and man. I so enjoy your type of writing sir. Multilayered within so few words demands maturity of life lived as a small river flows--transparent in the shallows, and dark in its brief depths.
2016-05-20


Nancy Sikora
With the creek and the suds and the vets and the truck talk you caught this part of New York perfectly. Although, at first I wondered why the veterinarians were wearing green jackets instead of coveralls. Ohhh, THAT kind of vets. Lol.
2016-05-19