Murky water tumbles along hitting rock after rock, kissing low hanging branches moving aquatic life more quickly down the main highway. Perhaps at first the water appears murky, but bend down and cup it in your hands it appears clear. However, beyond the eye many protozoans and amoebas lurk. Don’t wash your face with it. Don’t drink it. Located interior woodland shaded from the sun as it tries to peak though stained glass branches the ravine runs though it. The river runs though it. I could pick you up and cast you off to another place or an afterlife where you’d never know if you’re soul had actually left this earth. It is the river Styx and you don’t even know it. A sure death. A sure thrill. There are parts where the ravine rages and white crests form at the tips of rolling waves, these waves again hitting rocks and trees and trash. The rocks are slippery. The wood so soaked you could never make a fire with it. The ravine is ravenously waiting to digest and scoop up anything foolish enough to fuck with it. I has eyes. It sees you wondering. As you walk along the bank through snakes and spiders and other wilderness delights, it can see you pondering and weighing the costs. You could take a kayak or a canoe to it, but at your own peril.