Fish don't scream when the poison kills them, so the death of a river is a quiet thing, marked only with the floating bodies of the life that once existed there.

Two days ago there was a fire in a chemical plant a few miles upstream from us in Vermont. Poison doesn't respect borders, and death has been drifting downstream towards us since then, passed through our valley last night.

No one has told us yet what eye stinging chemical has been filling the air with its stench for the last twenty four hours. Biologists from both the U.S. and Canadian governments are at the river today busily collecting dead fish and water samples.

Maybe someone will think to let us in on what they've found.

Maybe they won't.

Our little sleepy river was one of the success stories, you know.

They'd cleaned it up enough that it was being stocked with trout, the first time in decades that the water had been pure enough to support this demanding species.

Our little sleepy river's death has given it an unexpected 15 minutes of fame.

The news crews are here today from Montreal and Vermont. Their reporters stand on our bridge and use it as a picturesque backdrop. The fish are newly dead, so they're quite tidy, none of that smelly rotting business that will happen in a few days.

Fame is so fleeting now in the era of 30 second news bites. No one will be around to film what happens to the gulls, herons, kingfishers, or raccoons who will be among the creatures to gorge on this unexpected bounty. No one will be around to film the story's end.

The death of a river is a quiet thing, as silent as a tear.