These waters were never intended to purify, and it seems doubtful that this river was designed as an irrigation project by a higher power; like so much else along its muddy banks, it just happened.
Voices mingle throughout the valley and generate a deceptive current, a sublime flow of notes that create a song composed of tears-- of joy and sorrow, of pain and triumph-- that echoes off the hills like a lullaby.
Between the river’s origin and destination it finds its heart in our humble fields and mountains; the river takes the character of the faces that line the murky shores. They populate towns that once were more, enclaves that previously shined and radiated contentment, but the flow of the river offered promise.
With the passing of seasons the hills emerald hues fade with the arrival of blustery winds and snow before reemerging in brilliant grandeur, and then again melting into a brown soup. Still, always, the reflective waters move at a glacial pace.
Always renewing, always flowing, always progressing through our lives, the river, carrying dreams and the vessels which contain them, forever pure and unimpeded.
Kevin E. Pittack Jr. is a resident of Pennsylvania, and his poetry has appeared twice in Door is a Jar Magazine. He aspires to one day write like Robert Frost and to be as cool as Rod Serling.