From dust to salt lies the thread of our city, a vein wrapped in concrete—the hidden line that connects the valley to the sea. This place, the Los Angeles river, is largely a repository for things discarded; a corridor that rides alongside the interstate and cuts through neighborhoods, both rich and poor, tucked away and overlooked, sadly stripped of its historical past.

Once the main source of fresh water—and therefore of life—in Los Angeles, the LA River—historically known as Paayme Paxaayt (or 'West River') by the Tongva—belongs now to the downtrodden, the outcasts and the detritus of forgotten things. It is here that the great blue heron perches upon the burnt-orange rust of an overturned shopping cart. Hollowed carcasses need not hold tight for fear of being swept away.

Our river is one of slow decay; a lifeline succumbing to atrophy. One wonders what—and who—will be found among its remains.