arctic_fox ovenbird The foxes run over the ice. The foxes run over my body and their warmth is a gift of fur and fellowship. This calved floe drifts and I sit upon it and the foxes play and no one worries about being too close to the edge. Laughter is a glass fishing float rising to the surface of my sea. But descent is inevitable. It’s been ordained. I am dressed in a snow suit cinched with a belt. The suit is blue but the water is bluer. I am given a length of nylon rope to cling to and lowered into the ocean. Down and down and further down, everything is blue, and I’m not afraid. I hold my breath. I can hold my breath for a long time. When I’m ready to come up for air I tug on the rope and wait. But it remains slack in my hand. The water is cold. I tug twice, again. I am faithful. I wait for the peal that calls the devout to pray. I wait to be lifted up. But the rope is seaweed waving in the current. I’m too far down. And the foxes found their forests. And I’m running out of air. 260929 what's it to you? who go blather from