The rain flows down into the canyon, carrying branches the size of logs down below the pavement. From up so close, I can see each swirl and eddy of the water as it courses its way besides the road; I can see each small, delicate rivulet coursing out along cracks in the tar. There’s an ocean here, and it’s all going down.

A leaf as big as a dinner table comes close and I fall onto it, letting it catch me and carry me. I’m part of the river now, just another thing in the flow. I take a moment to lie back and look up at I pitch and sway dizzily. What must it be like to be big? Could I be a giant and reach up, plucking those silver apples from the sky? Could I vault this river as though it were a trickle? Could my feet be the size of this leaf, or bigger – could I walk like a god?

A sharp turn, and I’m swept below, back down into the stinking darkness. There is no “above,” just more darkness. I’m carried back home and the water surrounds me, and I know I shouldn’t dream – no gods could tread down here.