During the rains, the darkening rains,
I am floating above the flood,
waters beneath me, splashing my back.

The fish see my shoulder blades,
mistake them for wings
because I float in air. But I do not

fly. I travel on the water’s aura,
its color changing with my mood,
while the fish in crowded schools

complain about limited knowledge.
Oval clams stay tight, closed to my shape,
a silhouette against the darkening sky.

They speak in a fishy chorus, rub
scales against each other like blades.
Dark rain pelts my face, cold, stinging.

Black water at my back splashes warm,
inviting me in. But I hover above,
still without wings, stay in-between.

I do not swim or dive or fly.
I float. The only way I know to get by.

– Joan Mazza