Down in the water, in the river, down by the lake, the stones are slick.
We would play there as children, having avoided those nettlesome geese.
We would look down to the small reservoir to watch the tadpoles dart.
We would. We would. We.
Cars would come. Where the water was low, a road crossed through.
We would scamper barefoot to the side. We would wave
as the ocean parted, wondering if the car was too low,
would the water get inside?
Would it gum up the works?
Ruin the carpets?
We would hope that things would go wrong, because of course
we would. That's who
we were. We were. We.
Yes, we would tramp the riverbed, peering downwards,
seeking out fishies, but our footfalls would loosen the muck,
turning the water opaque with our boorish disruptions.
"That'll teach you" the river would say
in that cocky way that rivers do and
we would reply by stomping, and splashing,
tearing up pebbles and rocks to hurl every which way,
not understanding that the water would only settle
and the fish would only return once we monkeys had gone away.
But, following the habit of our lifetimes,
all of yours, some of mine,
We would rage. We would. We.
