River, you are a cold black bath, a mother, an obsidian grave. A layer of leaves lie among the trash and the blue green ripples. River, you are a spiral staircase, a treasure chest, you are woven through the land. A single green turtle sits on your banks, the shore flickering blinding white, moving along like constant thoughts, like life, the waters rippling gently. River, you are black with cow lilies floating along your sides.