THE CAPTAIN CALLED
It was overcast when the Captain chose to haul down the rigging and swab the deck…a perfect day to clean the hull.
The captain did the heavy lifting…
While I feigned age and lack of experience.
None-the-less we made substantial gains.
The captain knew and used nautical solutions to clear winter’s deposits…from coal dust.
From mountains towering around us as we stood in one of the few flat spots in this small town running along the Allegany Ridge where fog rose now, and the rain due last Friday moved toward the scrubbing of the boat, offering a free rinsing.
This didn’t deter the captain, he worked alone as the rain pounded us and giant trees reached out forming a canopy of green, except for one old tree struck by lightening which had taken the shape of an alligator featuring a distorted yellow hue resembling the dyed hair of Donald Trump!
Standing on a limb looking like a lip, a great Eagle’s talons clutched the brittle wood as his piercing eyes looked beneath the waters of the North Fork of the Kentucky River finding it’s way to the Ohio some three hundred miles as the crow flies passing the chambers where liars reside, making laws to benefit the gerrymandering influencing political control.
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Maybe the Eagle will see dinner, a muskrat shot by the captain…a varmint destroying the riverbank along with vegetation to sustain it.
Or maybe the Eagle will fly away on wingspan of seven feet across the one-hundred-year-old foot bridge which now fails to connect generations increpted by iPad and the internet zoning out on opioids or overdosing on Fentanyl’s.
Even here, in this historical place where Daniel Boone first came blazing a trail toward Harrodsburg where he built Fort Boonesborough…and the western movement carrying immigrants in Conestoga wagons through slave and non-slave states separated by the Missouri Compromise from a mind-set permitting the desecration of the Buffalo for fun and the Native American as a legacy from the ugly American pale eyes.
Seems the Redman was of a color unacceptable to whites…if only the color of blood had been yellow!
Welby Thomas Cox, Jr. author of:
Portrait of Mass Murder
The Little Big Horn
The Other Side of Lincoln
The Trumpster