At the front edge of the outflow of someone’s car wash

Having reached a stretch of curb just as the outflow from someone’s car wash runs down it. Front edge of it pushing its way through the dry fallen tree blossoms in the curb, past a sandy area, concealed by a twisted refuse of dried branches and dirty plastic at another point, going slower than I walk, having followed it for a good thirty, forty yards. The front edge having swung around a natural impediment of gravel and sticks, it finally dives with apparent purpose into the sewer opening, with more and more purpose as the thickening ranks of water, streamed with current, fall in behind.

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