A river flows under my street. A long time ago, it ran on the surface, when this place was an open field, dotted with ponds. Then, somewhere along the line, the river sank. It was diverted into pipes and submerged beneath roads and homes. We lost track of it. Now we only notice it during heavy rains, when it percolates into people’s basements or bursts its banks and bleeds into the street, turning it once more into a river. The river is still there, even though we don’t see it. It is still fleet, still flowing. And it knows exactly where it’s going.
A version of this abbreviated essay appears in the March issue of Ode.