I lower myself into the river, holding my breath, waiting to grow gills and fins. I tell myself I’ve time. I tell myself I’ve no obligation to intervene, but at the same time I’m aware of climate concerns and chemical spillage. It’s a matter of habitat and habitual avoidance. It’s an issue relating to relative levels of long- and short-term solutions. The water’s low at this stage of the cycle, but I’m looking at the long game: evolution to extinction; big bang to singularity; inbreath to outbreath. Gills, fins, and a leathery carapace. My eyes have seen things unknown to air. I’ll leave my script of dry bones where once was all the water we needed.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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