Geologists say one huge landmass

first occupied our planet’s seas -

“worlds” to come, both Old and New,

in tight embrace, ‘til one by one

two hundred million years ago

impatient continents broke ranks,

set sail on their tectonic plates

and rearranging shape and hue

settled in assigned domains;

waters hid hollows left behind.

This river, this run, from oozing swamp

to broad marsh flats – a legacy

of long forgotten lineage

with the Dark Continent itself –

groping through the jungle gloom

beneath its cypress canopy

in serpentine search of the sea.

You were eons old when Amerinds

traversed the land-bridge from the west,

generations foraging eastward.

fragments staking chosen spheres.

Moons before you whispered your name,

(remembering perhaps the days

when monsters ruled this very place),

settling here, the Woodland Indians

gently sculled your crooked ways,

scarcely rippling opaque surface,

spearing, snaring perch and pickerel,

bluegill, bass and terrapin

thriving in your winey waters,

sighting whitetails come to drink

and arrowed into meat and hides.

Brave and beast surely shuddered

when galleons poised at your gates,

and their pirates went marauding

on your mother river’s banks.

Then British routed Dutch and Spanish,

seizing bay and tidal rivers,

earning distrust from the natives,

doubly repaid in plunder, gore,

‘til white man’s muskets outspoke bows,

and Powhatan’s remnant disappeared

from inland reaches, and once more

eagles, otter, owls, cicada

shared dominion on a dragon’s run.

There came a time the Pamunkey’s queen,

seeking shelter for her people

from a reign of retribution,

found a fortress in your thickets.

Goaded by their Crown’s corruption,

followers of young Nat Bacon

found her hideout in your marshes,

sent her starving through the quagmire,

Pamunkey blood blending with your tannic tide.

Eagles screamed forth from your aeries

as nearby Yorktown’s cannons roared;

patriots broke the tyrant’s yoke

and freedom echoed through your realm.

New settlers claimed these fertile shores,

fishing, farming, lumbering, crafting

cypress shingles, poles of pine,

barging grain down dark waters,

harvesting ice to save for summer,

gigging, skating, boating here,

While in your shadows, their militia

hurled their volleys in the air,

dragoons mocking your proud silence

in readiness for what they feared:

the bold return of British sloops

rocking Rappahannock, Piankatank,

snatching back too brief a peace.

Then some years of serenity;

it seemed that way to some at least,

but your own annals may yet hold

some memory of slaves who found

short solace in your tangled groves,

a way mark to the Underground.

Martial law- scant skirmishes

here in these dank, marshy woods,

a place to hide the records of

two hundred years of births and deaths

of deeds and wills and judges calls,

before they could fall to arsonists

garbed in uniforms of blue.

Fortunate stream, you have survived

mankind in numerous guises -

once harboring a moonshine still,

catching cans lobbed out from cars

where you were glimpsed at public crossings,

or cringing from cascades of garbage,

old refrigerators, tires

lofted down by witless neighbors

mindless of your heritage –

and of their own - and ours.

But through it all you’ve had protectors,

the precious few who knew your worth,

saving sanctuaries too rare today.

Now one by one new friends of the Dragon

make their compacts with your heritage,

pledging labor, goods, respect

in trade for glimpses of rare beauty,

moments of pure peace.