Through

On the surface of the lake, the moon was a silver coin paying the boatman. The women dove beneath, caressed by weed and embraced by water. They sank with purpose, eyes open. They sank through time, though the water remained the same, and the moon, too. They sank to the depths. They saw the foundation of things, where the weeds rooted and the water settled and the moon touched only lightly, scattered and shaded. They scooped handfuls of mud and let the silt run through their fingers, cling under their nails. They burrowed. The moon watched them go.

Jay Castello is a writer, editor, and creative found by the river or at @jaymcastello.bsky.social.