Trestle by Royal Rhodes

The trestle no longer shakes,
rivet by rivet, as engines
surge along loose, iron rails.

The ties, coated with oozing pitch,
have been replaced by a boardwalk
for bikes and disciplined exercise.

A human knot of young runners
make a syncopated drum on the wood
floor of this giant erector set.

They show identical sweat stains
on their shirts like the joggers ahead
who sweeten the air with their bodies.

The bridge parts the curtain of foliage,
and the light is blinding in brightness
between the woods ahead and woods behind.

In the river, where water made this valley,
anglers wade upstream, like the heron
whose singleness causes us to wonder.

Humans and birds are watchful for fish
in the currents, surrounding debris
that constructs islands in the river flow.

From above we can see the farm run-off,
floating residue like a curious script
whose letters expand and then pull apart.

But there is no one left to read it.
The sites with fire pits along the banks,
when this was called Little Indian Run,

are claimed by others now, who leave
trash and testimonials of indifference
best forgotten, reduced down to ashes.

What was once called the "place of the owls,"
at least for the past two hundred years,
remains, and remains when we are gone.



Royal Rhodes is a retired teacher of global religions. His poems have appeared in numerous journals in the U.S., the U.K., and Canada. He lives in a small village in central Ohio.