090813 #worm Or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I would just keep paddling south, bailing with my cut-off milk jug every few miles, down past the highway, between the steeples and over the silent cars of the town, offering a ride, perhaps, to someone trapped on the deserted island of their roof, then out the other side, crossing the state line that snakes along somewhere under the middle of the great, old river, the river that, eventually, passes under, or over, all bridges, wears away all the walls, carries debris, despair, and hope to all the gritty downtowns and cobblestones along the way, and, eventually, maybe, comes back to where it started.