We drive around, stop,
get out, read the markers,
scan the hills, soak in stillness
invaded only by bird arias.
At Burnsides Bridge I get goofy,
become a Union soldier, grab
my 14 year old stepson,
pretend to stab him, throw
him off the bridge into the water.
He laughs a little, so do I,
but it feels foolish and forced,
unworthy of the place,
where it is said the creek
ran red with blood.
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