When the storm is over, the afternoon is fading and it is time to walk downtown. Schlepping through the miserable mess, Pawtucketville is sloppy with slush and snarling coeds angry at the last gasps of winter chilling their bones. I pass through them and by them like the spirit of the city unrecognized and unwanted in the moment.

The river is a friendlier local.

I stop on the bridge to stare at the water flowing over the rocks. I can hear it like some whisper from a stranger, but I can’t tell if it is the rocks or the water muttering under their breath.

There is meaning, but I can not repeat it.

I stand on the bridge by the river for an hour or more. The sun is setting, the shadows grow longer, but the voice remains the same.  I glance up at the smoke stacks lined up down the other side of the river, “Do you know what the river is saying?”

The smokestacks laugh at me and the evening comes with a smattering of stars.