I ease myself into the river, never
comfortable with the warm waters
that cause my breathing to waver . . .

on the far shore is an egret, watching
me with one eye, head askance, beak
opening and closing as though in prayer . . .

nearly across I feel something bump
my leg, some snout, some probing
hunger, and I quickly unsheathe my

dagger then spin around in the water,
trying not to splash. The egret shrieks,
and I oddly, in the face of danger,

think my skin has grown accustomed
to the waters. I cannot locate my
underwater assailant, then soon begin

to wonder if a branch or fish had touched
my leg; the egret walks away, down the bank,
shaking its head awkwardly. I reach shore

then stand to walk from the waters, slowly,
purposefully showing no fear, for what is
a man but an exclamation of purpose in

a random world? Standing on sand, I turn
back to the river, then spy the croc floating
passively in the middle; I see its whale eyes.