The Sudbury River

This river used to have turtles in it, my father said. He used to watch, with Jimmy Walworth. Policemen shot at their shells from the bridge with pistols. I imagine the slimed, Trodden leather tortoises, paddling their scarred shells home. Their turtle wives vexed with dread; too slow to be predictable. He looks at her through those old turtle eyes. They blink slow. And, somehow, the subtle tilt of head is enough. On the bridge, a shell casing, hot, fizzes. tumbles from the bridge, catches the dark night drifts floats rises noses down, settles ever quiet on the riverbed.