Did you know there's geese in the James River?

Probably. There's geese everywhere.

But the geese here set up camp

on the rocks standing in the water

rapids swirling around them,

unbothered.

I want to be a goose in the James River,

surrounded by rapids

and the tattered remains of industry.

There's geese outside the window

of the building I've been in all summer.

I watch them out the window during meals

and wish I could be

anwhere else.

Anyone else.

I don't want to be

a goose out the window,

but I do want to be

a goose on the James River.

I thought about naming myself after a bird

but eventually decided on

something more palatable.

There's herons in the river too.

But they're a bit too elegant.

A goose feels more appropriate.

A pest.

Down feathers caught in the river weeds,

water running into the

steadfast rocks hidden beneath the surface.

Swirling away in whirlpools

and rapids.

The ruins of the past,

iron and stoneworks crumbling into the water.

Foundations for a bridge

that is no longer there.

Decayed bits of old cars.

And the geese are unbothered.

To be a goose in the James.