There, where the edge froths and the limits cannot be seen

Then, there had been the weight of it. Lifting, pushing, pulling. To be carried along, drifting in ebbs and swells, to descend, ascend, this was what it meant to be alive. A movement through blue. Light shifting from black to silver. Gold glancing from above. The sea, a cathedral.

Above, the lure of something warm. A push and a pull which also lifted. Surface ripples, the roil of the ocean, jittering through jellied translucence. The wash ashore, a shudder, then an ease of water and wave. Then a lulling of sorts.

And there, where the edge froths and the limits cannot be seen, is a vastness which cannot be breached. A line in the distance shimmering its farewell. A sing-song of voices, prodding and poking. A withering in the heat, the light. And then, that push and pull again.

No flow. Just ebb.