I bought a  baby  pig  while you were in the ocean.  Will  it  stay

small forever,  or is this a  temporary  convenience? I can barely

keep  my  hands  on  it,  I can barely  see you both as you wade

toward abyss. Do I abandon  this  pig  or abandon my family?  I

have  responsibilities  and fur  to maintain,  but there is a hoard

of fish out there, and they  are eating  other fish, they are eating

their    own    kind,    they   are   eating   brethren   bigger   than

themselves.  A  line  of   ships   blots  out  the  horizon.  I  know,

intellectually,  they must be moving,  but  they  may as well  be

stranded,  abandoned,  ghostly,  dusty, for  all their movement

serves  me.  I can tell you wish I was in  the water  too,  sisters. I

would  warn  you  of  the  shifting  sandbar,  I  just  have to  find

someone to watch my pig first. I take my hand off for an instant

as I squint against the sun to find you, and then the pig is gone,

and my sisters are gone, they're somewhere beyond the  break,

they're there,  they're there, they must be!  But the sun, and the

ships, and the fish, and the waves.