I cannot reach you on foot; I cannot run to you on sunny days, or sit quietly on your banks. I will never know you well, but I doubt anyone does. I’ve heard little about you. It seems that you’re not charismatic enough—nothing like the Colorado River, or the Green River. You aren’t large or fast or striking in color. You are the equivalent of an old dog who sleeps all day. Sweet, placid—easy to ignore. But you are also an oasis in a nearly waterless land, and I don’t think you’re cherished enough for it. Maybe this is because you reside on the west side of town, the poorer side, the place of industrial plumes and coal trains. Here, there are signs in Spanish and homeless people on sidewalks. Here, the buildings are blocky and ugly, utilitarian, made to store commodities and to please no one. Maybe I’m harsh to judge, but I think you’re the most beautiful thing in this part of town. And you and this whole area could be valued if you were only noticed. Maybe someday they’ll see what an asset you are, and they will sit on your shores and gaze lovingly at your slow, green water. Until then, I will be the one who notices, all the way from the other side of town.