The sky’s the color of a raw oyster, shucked and glistening, as I pick my way down quicksilvered steps, moving into deeper water. A current wicks up from my ankles to knees to thighs to belly; I’m half in, half out when a bandy-legged swimmer, small as a leaf, darts away. Being of a place and time together, we’re somewhat kin; I wish it would stay and tell me a story, but no. This isn’t a fairytale where a tiny frog coughs up a magical scroll—it’s a place where the wind plays with my hair, where the pool cossets me, where whorls on my fingertips make the trails I follow—ten small labyrinths water- logged, wrinkling. I touch, then pull up on the ladder out, re-entering the maze of what world I can grasp.