Suns70

We wade within Buffalo Creek - water's warm in late August, under the High Street Bridge. History is there, built in 1926 - the bottles beneath are older, I know. Torrential rains pour every year - then and, later, we hope now. As the water crests, hearts pound - the bottles will dance down stream. Coca-Cola, RC, Hires, various brews - six-ounce, 10-ounce, thick, glass containers lodge themselves in mud. We play when the water wanes - and we seek, and we peer. We tramp and we bend. We focus and find, pieces of the past, tossed out of cars, off of trestles, into the Buffalo. I hold one today, wondering where it once was