The Estuary

It was a miserable morning of massive gray clouds and unrelentingly pounding rain. The youth sat atop the side of the bridge, legs dangling, eyes watching the frothy water rushing below. He was soaked to the skin and bone. 1

A man with a newspaper over his head scrambled across the bridge, stopping momentarily to tell the youth that he should head home before he catches a cold. The youth paid him no attention, but instead lifted his hand to examine his palm. It was filthy with soot. He held his palm up and let the rain cleanse it. The soot washed into the river and was carried away. The youth averted his gaze, looking further down the river, to the estuary. His eyes followed the soot, as well as the grime, the grease, the bottles, the papers, the glass, the metal, and the chemicals, all down to the estuary, where the rain and river took mankind’s excess filth and dumped it directly into the grand, oceanic home that man abandoned long ago.