Storm Drain

Treading the tar at the edge of the curb, I'm surprised by the sound of a melted snowstorm. There by my boots, a cage spreads its rusty grin, revealing a river entombed.

Today the storm drain is alive. If I stare, I can see the rotted guts of autumn stirring lethargically deep in the bed of a babbling brook; lifting, drifting, shifting in the direction of an unexpected spring. The water is insistent: come on, it whispers busily, we've got somewhere to go, and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.

I place my bulky bundled feet on strings of warping steel above the chasm. Amazing. Underneath my daily walk, I've found another world. For a while I listen to the river's voiceless voice, half-wishing I spoke the language. Whatever's being said sounds like conspiracy to me, but then again, what would I know?

At last, conceding ignorance, I step back onto solid ground and start to walk away. My boot soles make a soft cold rubber rhythm on the street. Something strange happens. My senses relocate. Suddenly I am experiencing this moment from the perspective of the world inside that drain. I'm hearing footsteps overhead, not underfoot. Bubbling dankly, I listen until the sound is swallowed up in subterranean stillness. Through the crooked bars... the sky breathes. A decade passes.