Water no one has crossed yet takes in the light from the windows just as it is. Reflections like white columns stretch long across the surface, and red and blue lane lines cut the water on a diagonal. The blue is bright at the shallow end and deepens toward the deep end. The ripples stir only faintly, without a sound.
Looking down at water like this, the shoulders drop a hand's width on their own. The soles of the feet read the coolness of the wet tile, and the fingertips pause for a moment to gauge the temperature of the water. The breath drawn in rests a beat between the ribs.
The feeling that often rises at the water's edge at dawn is impatience. The calculation of how many laps to swim sets off ahead of the body.
After getting into the water, hold the wall and put just your face in. Breathe out slowly through the nose and listen three times or so to the sound of the bubbles scattering, and the arms forget for a while the rush they were falling into. On a morning without a pool, why not try the same breath over water drawn in the washbasin.
The same breath continues after leaving the water's edge. While waiting for the green light at a crosswalk, loosen the shoulders a little and breathe out long through the nose. What to observe then is how far the belly rises and falls. Some dawns it rises shallowly and some dawns it sinks deeper than expected, so just counting which it is lets you move on, taking it as a reading of the body that morning.
The lane lines sway whenever the water sways, and even after swaying they do not let go of their own line.
