stillwater

Stillwater...a kill runs through it,
Paulina's Kill, still in places, mostly flowing.
And there are brooks and ponds,
lakes, springs, and stories (of still waters and
bootleg distillers, de-stilled, and long gone...
years before Gaul opened a liquor store,
or a park could expose their game.)

Water...still, and trees...
Woods returning, reclaiming;
cedar scouts leading the advance,
as companies of oaks and maples recover ground
once cowed for milk to be trained
in those big metal cans
from a Stillwater station.

The milk flowed to cities mostly, but, now,
it's hikers and horses, no rails on the trail.
And the Holsteins have slipped away like the moonshiners,
both, perhaps, looking for Lenape-Americans,
native campers, long gone, but
evidence of their sojourn, not hard to find,
unearthed by Spring plowing, and washed by Spring rains...

Trees...have returned, and in their wake, others;
the opportunistic sorts of hangers-on, that follows armies,
sheltered and nourished, protected by a treeful host.
This time, the riff-raff finding cover, a not-so-shadowy menagerie:
beaver-bear-turkey-deer-coyote...
eagles even, and evenings' owls...
who...hoot...who-hoots-for-yoouuu...

Yes...trees, waters and wildlife in Stillwater abound,
and country roads wind to the homes,
where good people are found.
There are more humans than cows now, and
more deer than Democrats,
(but not so many of the visitors
that used to wander Swartswood in tell-tale heels, after dining, now that Louis' Lake House is Gone).

Not far, down the road...Lotus Landing remains...
not in Peacock disguise, this time...
emerging for its next stand as The Boathouse
hoping for hungry boats, rows of boats...
some canoes...perhaps, a yacht club...row boats...

Strong, handsome rowboats...
Mr. Eaves used to build 'em near the mill end of the Lake
for fathers and sons to fish from;
rowing at dawn through misty swirls,
seeking big ones that wouldn't get away,
luring not-so-big ones that didn't get away, and
wiping fishslimed hands on warming dungarees because
eating no-longer-frozen SNICKERS is better if you do that.
Mr. Eaves got away...His sturdy dock is now a Boat Launch.
A few of his strong, handsome, wooden rowboats
remain...in good hands...

Joseph Swartswood didn't get away.
Long gone, not forgotten.
Gotten by some who may have over-reacted
to his over-stay of their stillwaters.
Spilling one's guts is one way to get your name attached to a lake,
one of the best lakes,
but, maybe not the best way.

The first Mr. Robbins took a more comfortable approach,
attaching his name with a brush and some paint: Robbins Store.
Robbins had what was needed, even your mail.
A general store, outranking the majors in town.
Penny candies for pennies,
dynamite for stumps,
fish hooks and icecream,
Esso from the pumps.
There were bacon and bullets,
shaarrp cheddar by the pound,
comicbooks and work boots,
at Homedepot not found.
It was a place could be walked to
and a space that would warm you
while meeting good friends there.
Gathered round warm pot-belly
toasting shins or junkmail,
Girl Scouts on the frontporch,?
'til sadly...For Sale...

Changes...our town, changing, yet timeless...
though streets have been paved.
Good people live here on purpose,
beyond sidewalks and streetlights
taken home by country roads,
past trees, waters and wildlife...
Middle of Nowhere...
some say...
not me.