Crossing the Bridge

Here I am driving across the bridge from New Hope, PA, to Lambertville, New Jersey.

Is it my imagination or when it rains do our cars sway trepidatiously on the chain-link bridge? I always feel like I'm gonna sail over into the Delaware River below. Especially when I'm trying to take a decent photograph!

My photography mentor is, of course, the one the only Bill Hess, who photographs while he drives in Wasilla. In fact he left me a comment below telling me not to get killed while I drive. I'll surely try not to, Bill, I'll surely try.

Reason I went was cuz Dave Kime told me I had a poem published in The River. It's one of the best poems I wrote & I couldn't find it anywhere so I went to Lambertville to retrieve it. Believe it or not, I haven't looked at it yet. Too busy.

The editor, Elaine Restifo, autographed these copies on the last page.



Three serious men

We sit in a large room on the second floor of the Lambertville NJ library. A huge pine tree is outside the window. I plopped a huge container of cut-up watermelon on the table w/toothpicks I brought from home. Everyone marvelled at the delicious fruit, which, of course, I buy at my Giant supermarket. Bill Donlen (left) brought a big container of tart plums that grow in his yard.

Surreptitiously, I photo'd the group cuz I didn't wanna disrupt the meeting. Its leader, Judith Lawrence, sat directly to my left. She's the editor of the above River Poems.

Elijah Pringle III

Elijah echoed my thoughts when he said, This was one of our best poetry sessions ever! Of course I hadn't been there in nearly a year and missed it terribly. Among other things, I was running therapy groups on Saturday,

Ah, the many lives we live. I said to Scott that spending three hours with the poets yesterday was tantamount to traveling to Europe last year. My mind was given so much stimulation. Something I can't find here on Cowbell Road.

Intellectual stimulation is the most important thing in my life. I realize that now for the first time. To achieve this, I've gotta cross the bridge. Will do, Ruthie!



When I got home, Scott and I went on an easy walk at Pennypack Trust cuz we were both tired but wanted to spend time together and with our beloved Mother. We discovered that walking just before dusk the animals are in action.

Shhh! There's a mother deer and her two does grazing on the tall grasses. When Scott whispered to tell me -- I was already watching them -- the mother deer looked straight at us and took off, white tail a-flashing with her two fawns running after her.

She was teaching them as they ran from us. Stay away from folks.

The sound of chattering families of birds was overpowering at this hour. I could've stood there and just listened to their complicated twitterings, a language that I'm sure birders have partially decoded.

As we headed back from our walk, leaving behind the gently-sloping meadow, and stepping into a thickly-wooded area that would lead to the parking lot, I stopped dead in my tracks. And did not whisper. But said right out loud, "Scott! Look at this!"

He looked down on the trail and saw a brightly painted box turtle.

"What shall we do with it?" I asked him, thinking we should return it to the pond, the pond where a year ago Sarah had freed a turtle from a fishing hook that stuck in his claw.

"Leave it alone," he said. "It's been fine for millions of years, it'll be fine without us."

We watched the solid fellow, so seemingly sure of himself, so wise looking, as he slowly walked into the thick vegetation.

I am a feather-finder and keep them in various places in my house. I found the above feather in the Pennypack meadow. What kind dyou think it is? Pheasant?