Tapping the Hudson

In the mighty-sound quality
Of Rivers. Around the drying
Season the empty husks of
Spring fly off and dispel
Into the lack-moisture air.

It is such as that

What Rivers

Once standing and realizing
The Land may just go on
Forever and that final
Hope for immortality

In land at least

How like us!

To forget that we are that
Last Republic, the last
Adventure. To forget that
Once ragged men
Did

Stand here and dream.

It crumbles to the touch
Now. The reservoirs are
Drying out leaving those
Significant stretches of
Washed-out arroyos and
They speak of
Rivers now?

Perhaps