Last Sunday while swimming in the ocean a little fish hopped into my mouth. This was a first. After I spit it out, with the lingering taste of well, fish, my mind journeyed through the idea that something like this was bound to happen. My first ocean swim launched from my father's arms when I was 9 months old (while members of the immediate and extended family freaked out from shore). Since then I've spent a lot of time in the ocean and other open bodies of water. As though the little fish incident was a badge of accomplishment or something the ego-self attached to it with the assuming streak of aquatic specialness. I had united with nature in a new way and in a manner I figured few had.
A few days later while walking my dog, something I'd never seen before fell from above past my head and landed near my feet onto the end of a neighbor's paved driveway. Then another. The shape and color looked familiar only it was sized-down. I stepped back, looked up and made out the faint shape of a squirrel in a southward sweeping live oak branch. I was almost shat on by a squirrel for the first time.
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