Silently, he sidled up, to speak to me of his death.
He stepped into my inattention, my rapt, lost, quiet moment, empty of all thought, anchored in this place—he stepped in through an open door.
Silently, I greeted him.
He spoke quietly, but somehow, not in words, and told me—of the cold, and slipping, of the body drawn, and stopping. Told me—of his heart, raced-heartbeat, its reaching, its long-slow,
and stopping.
He told me—why.
As I listened, the weak sunlit sky of day was made all dark. I saw the spotlights’ circles flash and search, their beams made crossed swords clashing. I heard the rain that made the river rise to meet the sky, made water of the air, and suffocated the swimmer’s breath. I too was drawn, lost in liminal spaces, not in time, but drawn, and drowning. Before us ran the river; beneath our feet and at our backs grey stone drew closer, tighter, rain-wet and black, spotlight-flashed.
Silently, I listened.
He told me—of setting Westward stroke, night fallen, of swimming through the dark. I heard the siren stir; the blood in me was pulsed. He told me—or was it that I heard them?—of bullets cutting course through water. Told me—
this is where I died.
From the door, left ajar, cold breeze whispered, made ice of bones, deep-seeping under skin.
And silently,
still, the river ran.
Magical: Day One 