Walking to the River (edited)

The river. Dogs swim in it, fish piss in it. It washes its dead up on the banks. The banks ignore it. The river is our destination through flaking trees and salty flowers, across riverside roads and sign-posted paths with people celebrating the invention of the wheel. Out of the river a bird sticks its black arse, a Rabelaisian greeting, and I half expect a cartoon balloon to belch into the air, saying, 'Fuck off, will ya, I'm trying to fish here!' I look down and at my dog's front paws there lies a complete river bream. It seems healthy, not a mark on it, so I look around, thinking it might be some mass death by industrial pollution. No: just one stark fish, its scales silver in the sunlight. My dog has one sniff and into the river for a swim. I call her back but there is no stopping her and I trust her instincts to judge fresh water from foul. Reeds grow green and straight, the cormorant appears again, with its knowing look. The river seems healthy enough. Here again, today, two pelicans do their strange ritual: while one swims up river, close to our bank, the other swims down river by the far bank, the bank with the restaurant nesting on its jetty. Like pedestrians walking both sides of a suburban road in different directions. My dog comes to shore and does her shake dance. 'Go, girl, go!' I say to her, half laughing, then wet dog and I turn for home, leaving the dead bream for birds to peck, the cormorant to his fishing, and perverse pelicans to come to their conclusion.


(Thanks to Sarah French for editing suggestions.)