Driving back from our long-weekend in the Green Mountains, we came upon a little town that had been built at the turn of the nineteenth century for need of nothing else but a canal. Bellow Falls. After eating lunch I was restless to get back in the car, so we walked down to the water and behind some old brick apartment buildings, their fire escapes and alleys shadowed away. Sets of train tracks went this way and that. Street were wide and for the most part empty. We couldn't seem to find the falls and when we asked we found out they were closed. The man who informed us didn't seem to heed the government's warning about the bridge being unsafe and gave us directions to hop the cement barriers and go take a look. And we did.
We stood out on the crumbing bridge, a hundred feet above the river, the rocks. We stood level, as equals with the sky-seem of horizon.
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