It recently just rained.
The air still has leftover water in the pockets of its existence.
I can feel it.
I swat and shoo away the mosquitos,
who can smell my fresh blood ten miles away.
While I am distracted by the pests,
the river flows.

The river is murky- a not yet green, not yet yellow,
not yet brown Beast that has vague faces on it
from the reflections of the clouds.
The faces are so hidden and so unrecognizable
you cannot tell if they are
happy, sad, mad, or even emoting at all.

The leaves on the river glides along forward,
as if it is going to work on schedule-
cars along the interstate hoking at the other cars to move.
Meanwhile the river takes its time,
lazily it dries the leaves along.

The sun's perfectly crafted light can be seen
like waves on the underbelly of the
-alive, dark, green-
leaves of the limp tree that hovers
over the river on the bank.

The river looks peaceful from afar-
afar, it looks like a constant, steady movement
from left to right.

But, there is a war.

Two sides of the river are constantly fighting.
One side is constantly victorious, however the other side
keeps fighting and struggles to live,
but it seems as if the table can turn at any time;
a chair with three legs.

The sun is facing directly at me,
while still casting a towering shadow on the surface of the river,
due to the trees that look like giants from another plant
that I read once in a comic book.

A cool breeze rewards me for being in this atmosphere,
for staring at a body of water for an hour and analyzing its heart.

But does the river have a heart?
Does it have a brain?
What does it think of me?