Ezekiel Fugate
Words fail.
I visit a new River.
Old River.
Roanoke River.
Rowin’ Oak.
Moratuck.
Moratock.
Rawrenok.
Easy entry, a riverside trail, formerly a rail.
The other side still a rail.
A conduit for industry.
Plunder. Exploitation. Destruction.
Profit?
No words as I ramble down.
No words as I search for life.
No words as I scan for something
Other than terrible beauty.
No words.
No fish.
No Rawrenok.
Trash. And lots of it.
“Trash”.
No away, they say.
Only here.
Among the branches.
In the water.
In the sky, unseen, mostly.
In my body. In our bodies.
No words. Only bodies and witnessing and “trash”.
Then tears. And lots of them.
How could we have done this?
How are we still doing this?
Where is the beauty that is not terrible?
Where are the hands creating beauty that is not terrible?
Where are the bodies witnessing this wreckage
and digesting it?
No words. Only tears.
How can I cry enough tears to wash away this terrible beauty?
All the while, a small bird chirping.
A companion call, not an alarm.
Here I am. Where are you?
Life in the air, but not in the water.
Something in the air.
No words. Only apologies and fears.
Apologies to River and Sky and Great-grandchildren and Ancestors.
Fears for my Children, and their Children, and their Children.
This terrible beauty is your inheritance.
This “trash” is here, in your bodies.
This River is here, in your bodies.
These tears are here, in your bodies.
Here you are. Where am I?
I ramble downstream to distract myself.
More “trash”, more bodies.
I kneel along the bank.
The other bank flickers:
White belly flap-hop leaf rustle.
Juvenile Red-tailed Hawk with wet wings struggling up a rock.
Words of refusal:
I don’t want an omen or a sign or a validation.
That’s not what This is.
This is bodies dripping.
This is bodies weeping.
This is bodies trying to survive.
This is bodies worshiping and breaking.
This is bodies catching the terrible beauty of this land
And failing to digest it.
The Earth does not belong to us, they say.
Hawk hops atop Ash.
Visible skeleton supporting invisible skeleton.
Bones atop bones atop bones, allowing someone to live.
Hawk faces Sun with bulging white breast,
outstretches wings at a low angle.
Drying dripping body.
Praising radiant Sun.
Supplicating for nothing other than This.
Praise punctuated by metallic screeching.
Rolling death.
Rolling plunder.
The wails of ancestors and offspring.
The rail sound.
Coal train.
Car after car.
Bulging with black gold.
Anthracite.
Bodies atop bodies atop bodies, belonging to someone.
At least for now.
Coal train finally grinds to a halt
there across River.
Hawk finally flies off.
A small bird chirps.
My palms raised in supplication.
Words fail.