With a slap of the water, ripples shimmer in the moonlight.

“Go away, beaver, this is our river,” shouts he.

The beaver calmly floats to the shoreline and takes a seat in the grass next to the two fellows sitting dazed by the river.

“It’s not your river, nor is it mine,” the beaver says. “We all shit where we sleep, but your kind cannot stop taking without giving back.”

“Why do the beavers stay?” One man asked. “I could skin you now for a few bucks. What would it matter?”

“Then you would skin the knowledge from the river, and all you would have left is a trickle of turds to gaze at in wonder,” said the beaver as he slipped gracefully back into the river current.

The man considered that for a moment, twisting long grass around his calloused finger. Clouds overhead gathered in waves like warships approaching a battle.

The two men stood up from the damp cold grass and began to walk South along the riverbank. The moon above shone bright with an eerie ring circling it. Now, with knowledge of the river in their soul, they felt peace deep in their bones.