Vermont's Rte 116 is washed out
detoured around, half blocked with barriers
bearing signs that say “road closed
local traffic only” — still, drivers who must
see for themselves [disbelieving louts]
speed past my pedal bike along a road
I never rode before this latest change
I study farms I’ve driven by — brand new
metal sheds, large machines, baled hay —
now the small marble house is up for sale
goldfinches bounce like grasshoppers
St John’s wort is burnt from green to copper
yellow flutters down from changing trees
great blue heron scouts the muddied fen
a local owner complains of “all the gas
she's wasted” to get to where she needs to
yet today, a sunny September Saturday
she too rides her bike, “it’s so much safer
“without all those pickups” — how many
drivers slowed to admire Dow Pond
before this season’s hundred-year rains?
how many knew the Muddy Branch ran
down the mountain into the pond through
a culvert under the 50-mile-per-hour road?
FEMA-funded town planners prophesy
thousand-year rains, but why repair? can’t
ours be the first state to see we’ve driven
so much farther than anyone should go?
No comments:
Post a Comment