It bleeds out of Black Lake, and into Otonabee River, and travels through several small cities and towns in the southeast of the province.
It is an old creek. It thins to a trickle in places, and throbs like an artery in others β it meanders underneath nearly every corner of the town. There are six that cross the river, joining what were once two distinct and feuding towns, and symbolize an end to a near century of uneasy proximity. Dover Bridge carries over from Temple Street, which bisects the city into is south and north end β in its centre, the bridge bears a plaque detailing the end of hostilities between Charlotte West and Bree East , and amalgamation.
Dozens carry over Blackwood Creek itself, wherever the creek could not be deterred. Some are solid, varnished and tended β others are old and weary, built decades ago by folk who saw a need. Once it was clean and strong. Once, like Charlotte itself, Blackwood Creek was innocent. Yellow-white froth gathers around derelict shopping carts and rusty old bikes tossed aside by thieves and vandals hoodlums and ruffians, the old ladies say.
A moldering armchair where Blackwood dips under Reed and Sherbroke unravels and flaps in the current. Sometimes you see a lost umbrella stripped to its bones breaking the surface. Pop cans and plastic bags bob along like pooh sticks until the creek swallows them.
Mark rolled up beside Johnny and peered through the screen of red and yellow leaves hanging over the creek like a curtain. He squinted. Their eyes met. Without a word, they hopped off their bikes and left them standing on the bridge β green bridge, as all the locals called it, though there was an official name dedicating it to a founder that no one could remember. It crossed Blackwood at an angle where Blackwood was wide and deep running along the bike path.
