The water we share is the way we know east, our sunrises alewived beaches. A great lake, an erection at its end, pointing downward, tired. I called it an ocean in my youth, I thought I could see across to Michigan, “An optical illusion,” my dad would say, “A puddle on a hot street, a bag on the road you think is a cat.” The sun never sets on our water, moons, though, wane and swell. We swam in storms, naked, heedless, bathed in fresh water. The beach at the zoo downwind from seals, owls, lions in heat, field trips our fathers underwent a long time ago, feeding bears cheese crackers, otters just as funny, almost touching monkey’s hands, the elephants have all grown up.