She drowned in a river

They hurled obscenities at the sun.
Shit! Godammit!
Get the fuck out of my sky!
they demanded.
We can’t have lens flare
on national television.
Viewers have expectations.

But before they went live
someone had an idea
and at a river’s bend
tv crews from four networks
made cairns of shoes and socks
and waded knee-deep
into the shadow of the bridge.

The cameras told a perfect lie
framing from the waist up
and reporters fought the chill
telling half-truths about a mourning town
while sifting fine river silt
playfully
between their toes.

Then each act was played out
rushed
so it could be over.
Locals filed by the grave
and buried it
under roses and lilies
as if the marble needed comforting.

And later
years probably
the river took still-morning visitors
under that same bridge
to wash unspoken questions
somewhere downstream
unanswered.

But don’t think the river doesn’t care.
Pebbles will feel the lack
in their own good time.
Trees will lean towards each other
at the speed of seasons
branch touching branch
united in grief.

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challenge and writing