It seemed to me that the river had risen twice in size since yesterday, like yeast left in the sun. I could see you had the rings of Saturn beneath your eyes. It had been a year of heavy rain and all or nothing again. You said our relationship, like all lucrative technologies, had built in obsolescence. I was always listing forwards, in your presence. I said the bend, from bird’s eye view, might look like giant ampersand. You said descriptions were always cooler than reality, like how an orrery is prettier than the telescopic night sky. Besides, birds, like this dialogue, were going the way of the dinosaurs. A ring-tailed possum ran across the bike-trail in broad daylight, a well known omen of moments of what the fuck. You bemoaned the lack of wi-fi. Suddenly I felt self-alienated and salty, so to speak. We parted company like perforated saladas. I walked down to tidal reaches and realised, no, I’d never been here before. All this time I’d been thinking of Moonee Ponds Creek.
Apologies to Maribyrnong River, I Always Called You a Creek
1 August 2018