We move into the water. Most understand there is no point in bringing anything—the others learn quickly, belongings floating away, dissolving, freezing up or bogging them down. Simple needs rule. We share the work. Some gather kelp, crustaceans, duckweed. Others, the most tolerant of heat, go out to harvest succulents that have taken over the land. Dragon fruit and barrel cactus, low growing sedum, and prickly pear. And aloe—most of us need it as our skin softens and peels underwater. We take readily to birthing in warm shallows. But swimming is slow business, we miss our cars and motorcycles. The inventive among us explore the adaptation of boats for towing us to the other shore. The young form spontaneous “schools” and travel through the river en masse. We don’t know how to educate them for this life. Math, surely—but reading? As we learn the topography of our new world, we’ll teach them to make maps in their heads. Athletes among us compete in among the rapids or test themselves against the current. We begin to learn the ancient language of the sturgeon, the whispers of minnows. The tailwhip and body-smack alarms of trout. Teenagers, watching the mating dances of turtles, take to fluttering their fingertips around the face of the beloved, chin-rubbing and face-stroking. The ones being wooed learn from the turtles as well and master clear ways to say “no.” We are often content. We study the moon. Think about praying to her, thankful for cool nights. We could ask for change, make promises.