River

Bill Veazey

Upon driving over a river or stream, one usually glances at the water for an instant.  Just try to cross Berry’s Brook on Lang Road without looking left or right...you can't, and your thoughts will probably wander to some adventure of yesteryear; a canoe trip as a youth, a picnic by a stream.  As a traveling sales rep throughout New England, I saw many such sights.

One day, I looked to either side while driving on route 495 where it crosses over the Merrimack River near Haverhill, Massachusetts.  I could see for a mile in both directions; where the river flows from behind a hill in the south, to where it curves off behind another hill to the northeast.  From at least a hundred feet above the river, it is a grand view, but I was only allowed a brief glimpse, as I navigated the four lanes of traffic at near one-tenth the speed of sound.

That glimpse, that day, with the sun’s glittering reflection, created a mind-photo which cried out to be preserved.


River

It has no beginning,
                 it has no end.

  The river is different,
                   at every bend.

     Ripples of light, dancing along,
                    shimmering softly, sing their song,

        and bring to mind, in wistful ways,
                      how in our youth we spent our days.




January, 2007