I pass Todd’s Fork every day—a small stream feeding the Little Miami River. Their junction, the little river town where I work in the public library.
At times of high water, the narrow road lining it is closed. And, days later, the trees standing beside it wear remnants of debris—the high water mark well outside its banks.
But in times of drought, the streambed widens, the chunks of river rock thrown haphazardly from one edge to the other. Collecting the fallen leaves of a stand of Sycamores aptly placed.
Today wearing black--
of the Turkey Vultures roosting in their bare branches.
While close to fifty circle above, soaring atop a column of air.
Warmth from an autumn afternoon.
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