How its surface hides
the undulation on its bottom;
how its edges spill over
and are spilled over into.

How as it is fed by another,
the water tumbles, turns
over broken concrete slabs;
how herons perch there, oblivious.

How when the tunnel overflows
with rain, it releases a stench
into the summer breeze
that makes you turn away.

How the beaver plays under graffiti
refreshed the night before.

How my son found a raft
in a strip of woods on the bank;
how he hid there with his friends,
stoking rebellion in the wild.