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They tumble to our capitol,

pawing fences, padding entrance ramps,

rise like black-furred zombies

lumbering and upending our steady traffic,

seeking a buried river,

promiscuous in names,

Little, Mill, Hog,

and, finally, Park.

A millennial tributary, 

it once meandered through meadows

past the Wangunk, 

Saukiog, Tunxis peoples,

feeding Dutch fur traders

bass and bluegill,

powering Allyn’s grinding mill,

curving at Twain’s and Stowe’s nook homes

often spilling from rains

beyond its bounds,

slipping toward

its mother’s arms,

flooding streets 

and Bushnell’s jewel,

till the last century’s engineers,

highway men said enough,

and snuffed the river

with conduits and concrete,

sunk it far below

parking lots and football fields,

but the bears know what they know,

the scent of desire propels them to this place,

though they cannot slake their thirst 

or cool their padded paws from their asphalt path.