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 ground that washed away,
dropping trees into the weeds and water below.
The paved trail passes new condos and restaurants
made of bricks 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.