AiRMail 6/25/24

Editorial Note: Falling Waters is a small town on the Potomac River in Berkeley County, West Virginia. A Civil War battle took place on the Maryland side of the river in the summer of 1863. In 1943, the local news reported the Potomac River had reached an all-time low due to drought. This 2023 Trip Advisor review says much about the present state of the site: “Not much to see but a nice little waterfall in a poorly kept area.” 

​                      Falling Waters Again and Again
 
1863:
There is a river. There is the river swollen with mud.
There are the sumac, their bearded old-man flowers
like chins on hungry veterans of damnable war. There
is the patchy grass, yellow and dry, drained of early
spring’s hope. There are the flourishing weeds, our sins,
countless and brazen. Raise your eyes to the heavens.
There is only the sickly yellow sky. Or what once was
sky, now the spew and billow of gunfire. A few clouds,
fistsful of dirty cotton caught in the vaporized vomit.
A stone’s throw away, sleeping artillery. One lonely
birdsong pushes through the sound of snoring men  
who mumble their way through dreams. Life passing by.
 
1943:
There is a river. There is the river swollen with mud.
There are the sumac, their bearded old-man flowers
nodding in the easy breeze. There is the patchy grass,
pale yellow after months under frosts, hope for early
spring. The weeds near the riverbank are flourishing,
countless and brazen. Beautiful in their own rebellious
way. A stone’s throw away, two wooden benches,
a trash bin, a barbecue pit, cold ash and embers.
From near the river, one lonely birdsong breaks the silence.
Look to the heavens. The West Virginia sky is new blue.
A few clouds drift, fistsful of cotton. A storm is coming.
 
2023:
There is a river. There is the river swollen with mud.
There are the sumac, their bearded old-man flowers
resisting the breeze. There is the patchy grass, yellow
and dry, ready for winter. There are the weeds, countless
and brazen, still flourishing. Breaking into the skyline:
towering powerlines, massive connecting cables filling
the space overhead. At ground level, two meager swings,
two metal benches, two overful trash cans dilapidating
with rust. A stone’s throw away, two unoccupied trucks
parked in the middle of a paved lot. The sky between
powerlines is a startling autumn blue, waving just a few
clouds, wisps of cotton. One lonely birdsong rises above
the sound of distant traffic. Look around: Life is passing.