Square black tiles
three abreast
a column stretching
ahead and behind
marching
under and through
brittle stars' arms that writhe and bend
little amoebas the sun makes
merging blending radiating rippling dissolving
reaching
as I reach
pull
propel
Champagne bubbles from the passage
of my hands tickle my skin
kiss my cheeks
slide by
evaporate
There is only me
and the water and a four-count rhythm
until
inevitably

a wall

Fingertips scraping concrete
I fold
turn
push
and for a moment
a respite
floating flying coasting

One down
sixty-three to go.