The Lost River

I just tinkered with this a little. I really dig it. A wonderful story, based on a true one. Hope you like the piece. Makes me grin at the idea of human nature and how we always want to "know," when in reality, the ambiguity and uncertainty of life is ever-present, regardless. A little peek into my secret thought process behind this.

*The Lost River, located at Natural Bridge, Virginia, is so named because its source and destination are unknown, despite desperate attempts by many to locate them.

The Lost River*

So close.
They could hear the rush of water.
They imagined the stillness of its end,
but the true body, the beginning,
remained unknown. For many years,
full-chested men
set out on reckless rides
with restless horses;
the beasts grew tired
from the miles and the whip
and soon, they loped
with half-open mouths,
lips flapping to the breath game,
long teeth chomping to spit,
white foam lathering bits.
For decades, strange men
drank to exploding rock,
leaping over logs,
splashing through fallen leaves,
coughing up the muck of dreams,
hiking deep into the evergreen,
hunting, killing, searching
for the River’s source.
So close.
Later, some bit nails or scratched skin.
Others clawed at cheeks and chins,
and the wicked chase
drove them into mad fits,
a red-faced, grownup colic.
They cut permanent grooves,
carving into anything worth carving.
Names, initials, and the mess
of battle fields
spelled out the truth –
chicken scrawl showed the dates,
the horrible instants
when bone by bone, they suddenly
gave up.
Dropping the dynamite, struck
into tired, tight-lipped statues,
forced into stone silence,
they checked the sky,
guessing the weather
for the hard ride home.
So close.
And they returned to families
with no news, no notes, no souvenirs,
not even a single clue.
Some made fists, kicking their kid-like legs.
But meanwhile, back near The Lost River,
in the new, startling quiet, the brave
moment when the forest settled,
after all exploring men had slipped away,
perhaps then came life.
Maybe, in the clear, the forest Natives,
the watchers, grew restless, finally waking,
rising up from their hiding places,
the glowing, fire-lit caves,

their handmade homes,   
creeping out of thick shadows
like smiling, winking, slender, so-close-blue,
rich flames; easily, they lived inside
the swallowing art of wet secrecy.
Together, big-eyed, camouflaged
by leaves, they shook their heads, 
and when the twigs scattered,
they studied the damage,
knowing the truth,
that the River’s source was always present,
resting deep, deep inside
the mystery, the silent time
when the noise of horse men ended,
when the laughing trees whispered,
They are still coming.

C.A. MacConnell