The rush of rapids next to my trailer lulls me to sleep after long days. The water level rises and falls, but in less of a rhythm than the ocean’s tides. I can watch the ebb and flow marked with water lines on rocks, but it is less predictable than the daily highs and lows the sea brings. The salt is missing from the water’s scent. The blue hue isn’t there. But the white capping bubbles roll over themselves the same. I can sit and watch the rushing of wave upon wave and forget if i’m near the Atlantic Ocean or the Arkansas River.