Rushing, burbling, roaring.
The river floods each spring. Freezes each winter. Rises with the rain. Sinks with the heat.
You can always see its bottom. You can’t always see the river.
It has to be the right day. The right moon.The right hour. No one agrees on what it was that made it so they could see the river.
But every once in a while the phantom of Rate River surges past on its old route, long after it dried up.
And sometimes the waters laugh as they terrify another parked driver on the roads that crisscross its corpse.