Ghosts in the Water

Afternoon pool is still and vast. Water flows over skin like music and I watch my hands before me. Kick hard, now, to stay under as long as possible, drawing wide hearts in the deep of it. One stroke, then two, then three then four. The bubbles stop and with reluctance rise to air again. Yogic abdominal breathing = more air = more time under the surface = the thick, close world of water. Such a relief, those moments away.

And as the strength of me increases, the ripple effect expands. No splasher, I. Rather, send my intent down and back, pressure sliding like thunderbolts from fingertips. And as they shoot by, I feel their passage on my thighs and hips, as if my hand was there and not there, as if the strength of me was everywhere.