Moving Water

Here is a little something something I imagined while reading a biography of Mark Twain entitled, well, Mark Twain. I have gone on about water before, and here is some more of it.

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Trying to decipher the language of moving water, I lost my watch. The frayed nylon strap seemed to react at the slightest moisture and snapped off. It fell to the river bottom in a falling leaf motion. First through the shallow layer of blue and then into the sooty auburn of the middle layer. It slid into a cloudier shade of brown, lost into the bottom even though it had not hit the end.
I cursed. "Well, Goddammit!" My tongue pressed against the back of my teeth. I gritted through another noise, a whirring grunt.
"Hey!" said Captain Dale from behind the plexiglass at the wheel. "Language, OK?" He turned his head back and smiled to the passengers behind him. He shrugged and they smiled.
Dale gives the throttle a tiny push and inches the boat further down river. The soft eddies around the hull spun faster until the spun themselves into mild jets of foamy water. They squeezed out from underneath the hull, down the side of the boat, and back into the river.
"OK, folks," said Dale into the scratchy microphone. "We are almost near the ocean, so look for those changes in scenery and life. Look for the mangrove trees with the spider legs."
Everyone turns their heads around, except for Dale who keeps looking forward to the horizon. I look towards the bottom, hoping moving water swirls my watch to the surface.

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Peace!