Rivers are our life's blood, we carry their memory within us.

I was born under a bridge, just feet from the Mississippi,
the ghosts of Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn and Mark Twain, trip at my mind while river rats squeal and rant,oxygen bubbles appear and disappear,
I spend my time dreaming of coming-0f-age love, and friends to be, while the explorer in me watches the walking dead, still fighting wars in their heads, nesting under bridges and barges,

Black activists and supremacists also gather around the rivers, their fists laden with blades, still at large today…sometimes throwing angry rocks off the shore, the river is also a rude but natural causeway, sole and soul-splitting, with the excitement of
Rivers surging over rapids, speeding or sometimes meandering, we carry them with us from children to adulthood, our memories like pebbles we toss out into the river,
With high voltage footprints on the bottom’s muddy river floor, spitting rocks back at us, smooth and demure,

Only those who risk going out too far, will possibly find out how far one can go.