East Fork West Fork
of the North Branch of the Chicago River

I
My daughter and I stole down
the woodsy slope of the East Fork,
sliding from elm to oak to buckthorn
until we knelt on the mucky bank
covered with night prints
of deer and raccoon.
Giggling conspirators,
we plucked slimy fishbowl snails
from a hidden cache and cast them
forth into the brown waters.
Rejoicing in freed gastropods,
as well as freedom from gastropods,
we never once considered
the river.

II
I always imagined the East Fork
deep with giant turtles dwelling
in bottom ooze, eyes blinking once
every decade or so, but one afternoon
a white-tailed deer bounded
out from Harms Woods and skipped
across the river, hooves barely splashing
the water like wingéd feet.
My daughter declared the river low.
I caught my breath and told her
those turtles must be a lot bigger
than I ever dreamed.

III
During winter, in the days
when winters were really cold,
I used to ice skate on the West Fork.
Boys in black leather jackets
and flattops played ice hockey
upstream behind a grove of elm trees
while Sue and I perfected figure
eights, sharp blades feathering ice.
The boys hollered in the frosty air
and slapped the ice with their sticks.
Now and then one of their pucks slid
into view. Our pulses raced
at the thought of hiding them.

IV
Below a bridge over the West Fork
sat a turtle the size of a large stew pot.
He was tearing flesh from a carcass,
his bear claws gripping what had once
been squirrel, skunk, possum,
rabbit, or an unwary raccoon
groping in the shallows.
Massive jaws snapped open and shut,
his broad neck bulging with every bite.
Sue and I watched from the bridge
where long ago, in moonlight,
we had kissed the boys goodnight.
Water riffled about predator and prey,
a minor disturbance on the surface
of a river I thought I knew.