Dismal Levels

The river was collecting snow on itself. Almost nobody was coming to see it. Its banks were either slick and muddy, or frozen and rutted. The river was letting itself go. Here and there it was jammed with branches that trapped chunks of ice from the current, and plastic jugs and scraps of chicken wire, and there it was that snow collected. Once a day, someone with spikes on his shoes puffed along one of the banks, adding to the available store of good health, another rugged jerk. Oh dismal levels, thought the river, when it came to the subject of water lines. I'm only a murky reflection of the heavens, of winter clouds congealing, broken lines of geese, stars and moon and satellites. The river thought long and hard about what going down to the river must mean. It was the best place, thought the river, to think long and hard.