White River

This time of year, I pine. Many summers I've spent in VT. Haven't been up in too long. This time of year I miss it. Ever drive West on Rt 107, with the White River on your right?
How freaky is it?
It's this freaky;


White River

Much as the brookies run in season
Up the climbing White River swells,
I’ve seen a thing, defies reason,
A sight too marvelous to tell
  But I will…

So, I turned off I-89 and ran West on 107,
In my pickup I crossed the chicken wire bridge
To where the Vermont hills start to leaven,
Where a mighty beast lays off the road edge,
  In the valley of the White River

Rt. 107, she weaves and she rolls
As I coast through the valley low vales
And crest over small knotted knolls,
The river at times seems uphill it can sail!
  And No! I have not been drinking!

As I drive up each mild incline
She runs past me there, flowing just fine,
Yet when I roll down, on the other side, lee
The river is running uphill, as I see!
  Head on, from grill to my gate!

Whither we go together
Up these hills or on down,
By cow pastures, or woods,
Or through slowly the town,
As I drive down a hill
The river runs up to pass me,
Which compared to on uphills
  Appears even more fastly!

Possessed White River, what animates you?
Up and down, all around
  White River –
You make me seasick
  While I drive on firm ground!

We know how a pickup can drive up a hill,
For inside it’s a man,
  Just like me, with free will ,
But of you, beguiled White River,
What spirit life runs in your currents and foam?!

  It must be a magick, that 
    No mortal man
      Has ever known