Swirling in an eddy within sight of the main channel and its lazy progress.
Like the cream and brown coloured foam that grows in amongst the sticks and leaves that gather along the edges and in the nooks and crannies.
Like so much debris dragging along the bottom until it meets a fallen tree or a submerged limb.
A sharp rock or a long-forgotten automobile.

Or sitting along the banks watching it all. On the grass and out of the sun. Heavily breathing after a long descent into the canyon. Or a long, ever-downward walk into the valley. Watching with some apprehension as the climb back up and out weighs heavily on the mind.

Or with John Wesley Powell through Glen Canyon in battered boats looking for mappable features. With an eye toward exploration but a mind set on survival. With beautiful country up and out of sight. With the reality of a water-less future hanging over the inevitable colonization you are about to open up when you report your findings. Perched upon a mesa far from the maddening crowd.

Mostly, though, just swirling in the eddy. Removed, but moving. Not progressing other than in circular motions.