I hear the ringing salutations of the crickets inviting my soul nWith no responsibilities my heart feels light as I walk toward the water with my evening bowlnnAwaiting mosquitoes and bumble bees and centipedes and slithy toadsnOn the trestle above the whistle blows nCarrying its load, carrying its loadnnEcho from the stereo of a passing car beneath the overpassnAs I amble toward the water frontnPassed the fishing dock and the powder millnAlong the red clay pathnnItalian stone masons built the bridge and the aqueduct long agonOn the trestle above the whistle blows nCarrying its load, carrying its loadn nI gotta hit the water and not the ground, but nI might possibly drownn nOn the tenth day of March 1891 were drowned Louise King Conelly and Henry Cumming LamarnnLong before the days of cyber space, alien warfare and electric carsnAnd as I swim in this canal I get a nervous feeling that I too may possibly drown