Dipping and lulling. Feet wrinkled prunes, fins in progress. I forage the waves in the allies of streams. Torn on branches, gills pulsating I sweep the floor, yet again empty of food. I grapple with the smooth surfaces of scales. Scales that most now possess. Adjusting to the flood, the flood that we call home, we evict the fish that owned these waters and bleed the beds of pavement dry. A dry we no longer frequent in these parts or all those parts some have dared to drift out to. Building foundations form a lid across the water. A lid of cracks and gaps and abyss’. Dangling string and makeshift bait between each thwarting line, I collect debris for which I’ll build a home.