Went to ground. Went to water.
I was in the fountain all undone.
I was in the river with the brown water flowing cool over me, hiding me, holding me. I held the lip of the boat and kept my chin above water. The fox looked down from his perch, refusing primly the invitation to join me. “The question is,” he said, “if you’re in there, who’s steering the boat?”
No one was steering.
I wasn’t sure that was a problem, but the fox was unsettled by it. I considered options. We could drop anchor. Or beach the boat at a sandy spot. But the problem with that was that we wouldn’t be moving anymore, and moving through the water felt vital.
When the boat stopped, the river loosed my grip and carried me on without the boat, just me, my body of fevered paleness and the smooth and certain flow of the cool brown water.