I dreamed

The river is not water. It is a thick, grey paste, the color of the overcast sky that has flattened the park into a single beige sheet for days. The headline hangs in the air above the bank: Barra Bonanza. But the channel is blocked by silt that looks like old code, compacted and dark, refusing to flow.

I try to shovel a piece of it, but it has the weight of a compiler that hasn’t run. It doesn’t crumble. It just sits there, heavy and useless, mirroring the light in my head that refuses to move. The eucalyptus leaves are gone. In their place, the bank is lined with frozen, mid-sway fronds, caught in a breeze that isn’t blowing.

A red object sits near the paved circle, but nobody came for it. It exists for one glance and then stops existing for the record. The silt rises. It is not a concession. It is a knife pressed against the throat of the current.