Shallow Roots

Shallow Roots

I moved away but the river is still here with

memories of picnics and throwing baseballs with

a son who is now taller than me.

Dragonfiles glide above their reflections

and ants search rocks for food.

Waves bump the knees of a girl sliding a lure along her fishing line

as a tugboat named Charles Haun pushing four barges of coal passes by.

Shadows quietly shift towards fall, but a surveyor’s bald head

sweats over a mound of red dirt in the early morning sun and

an Irish Setter swims and obeys whistled commands.

On the top of the riverbank,

shallow roots of oak and pine trees reach out for groundĀ that washed away,

dropping trees into the weeds and water below.

The paved trail passes new condos and restaurants

made of bricksĀ the color of bark, sand, and stone.

Shiny circles, squares, swirls, and stars are scattered on a sidewalk.

Confettied pieces of a celebration already done.

They will soon blow away like it never happened.

Like I was never here.

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