The stream was talking all night, well more like a mumble in the moonlight. I had my tent I had a fire; and the trucks down-shifting at the top of Franconia Notch on their way south out of the White Mountains on 93 only a quarter mile away...
It was the most exquisite spot to sit and watch the moon ripple, the river flow and listen to the truckers go. The breeze brought the trees into a whisper and sigh, while the river rolled quick and bright. Still the trucks were gorgeous roaring through the night. You could just see the flicker of semi light through the trees.
   As a conversation it was exhilarating and dumb; the rocks and the water with not much to say, while the rubber and the diesel kept repeating their refrain. It was so beautiful, and I was not shocked as a consenting participant in this culture of waste, of comfort and dominance, hurry and thirst. I dug the paradox and irony, the coincidence and tragedy. Is there any wonder why. This is the world we have wrought.
It's crazy, they have finally capped the gusher in the gulf after nearly three months, and do I think about it as I mash down on the gas to pass or spend two hours driving to sit and listen to truckers whine through the woods? Those gulf waters will never be the same, with all the dispersant they have sprayed and the rivers of oil that have flowed. The place will never be the same. Remember the Exxon Valdez.? That's just a drop in the bucket. Check your bucket. Your bucket's got a hole in it. Just ask Eddie Bo.
Do I know what to do about it? No I don't.
Well I'm just glad to be breathing in July, and swimming into August said the toad to the tadpole. Let the Lizard hold his breath 'til the fifth said the band...
and the trucks rumbled as the Pemigewasset rolled.