Monday, January 25, 2010

What I Want to Tell You About Water

I walked along the same path every day; it was just a concrete bridge over a stream. Only once was a fat dog trapped in the water. I skidded down the embankment and pulled the dog out, but he didn't bite me and I didn't hurt myself, so it's not much of a story.

Deep water
Lifeguards' whistles.
Alternate endings told in semaphore.

We stood at Niagara's fringe in yellow slickers and I laughed to imagine the great Falls soaking me one drop at a time. He reproached me for too much fun. Maybe he really died from lack of joy.

Cats don't mind water, but are terrified of shampoo.

I have been practicing Navy showers, which are best in July. In January I leave the water running and tell myself there's time for conservation in the desert.

We floated down the Ichetucknee River in inner tubes while snakes swam past without even water-wings. Clear-water streams meet tea-brown rivers and are swallowed. I shudder to imagine being pushed from the light into the dark and disappearing.

Beer is mostly water.

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