Rushing, Rushing, Rushing
Hayeswater by Matthew Arnold
A region desolate and wild.
Black, chafing water: and afloat,
And lonely as a truant child
In a waste wood, a single boat:
No mast, no sails are set thereon;
It moves, but never moveth on:
And welters like a human thing
Amid the wild waves weltering.
Behind, a buried vale doth sleep,
Far down the torrent cleaves its way:
In front the dumb rock rises steep,
A fretted wall of blue and grey;
Of shooting cliff and crumbled stone
With many a wild weed overgrown:
All else, black water: and afloat,
One rood from shore, that single boat.
I found some new brush to explore. This dam is in a tiny don’tblinkifyouhaveto place called Ontario in Indiana. I drove by the dirt road leading to it twice before seeing the small brown sign pointing the way. The road is closed until spring when the weather is inclement, as they do not plow it during snow, but for now it is passable. I met up with a lone fisherman casting his line over and over while I shot to my heart’s content. As I was leaving, a farmer came putting down the road on his tractor. He and the little girl who was riding along gave me a smile and a wave as we passed by each other.