Poised on the bank over the unreasonable flow, spear ready, intent, I wait for the one. You know it; it’s there and then it’s gone just as fast as you can move for it. I know, I know, I need to drop the weapon and jump in after it. Give up civilized pretense and strip myself for action — become the creature among flailing utterances, the instantaneous insane mumbles that lack meaning but are filled with life and fight like hell to keep from being caught. You know it when it happens, you pull it against your skin as it battles, flaps, flails. The stench overwhelms, the wondrously wild reek of a rivered vocabulary — the syntax of the core.