The Mighty Mohawk Poem by David Welch

It carves its way through the hills and cliffsides,
too far from the oceans to feel a tide,
by Rome it is narrow, but here it is wide,
great locks of the Erie let barges rise
past sand bars and rocks shoals that undermine;
the only way west back in olden times.
From ruined aqueducts, kids they will dive,
along scenic 5S tourists will drive,
look above and sometimes bald eagles fly
scanning for bass that in the current thrive,
while deer come to shore looking to imbibe.
Rambles until the Hudson is in sight,
the mighty Mohawk is ever alive.