Context — there is always a next level.
You’re born. You learn to float. You drift along,
swept slowly, quickly, as the currents move.
Inhabiting the surface is that throng
without mobility were flows removed.
A smaller group has muscles that react
to periodic jetsam scudding by,
collecting shiny objects to transact
aware of water ‘pon which they rely.
The smallest group all perch upon pontoons,
they’ve hoisted selves from river of events.
Though recognizing water, they’re immune
to sorrows spawned by seeking its contents.
Perhaps some day I’ll graduate to know
I am the boat, and bridge, and water flow.