November 30, 2017
From a distance, the trees that survived the storm, which had seemed like platoons of bare popsicle sticks along the mountainside, have now grown strangely green. In an effort to survive they have sprouted dense layers of leaves along their trunks where leaves would typically never be found. I thought at first that it was surely just vines taking advantage of the cleared canopy - and in some cases it certainly is that - but the vast majority of it is the trees themselves making use of some hidden subroutine to stay alive. They look like dead branches under water, draped in algae, and I am a little fish hiding in the roots of the mangroves.
It feels much like I imagine it would be to live inside a river. The medium resists. There is a viscosity to communication and travel. One direction pushes you along; the other direction is a slog. Just staying in place requires an effort unknown to those creatures that inhabit the air. I am neither colorful nor flashy. I am small and brown and stout, but my fins are strong and I have learned the currents well. Here in my Caribbean river I swim with other stout brown fish amongst the strange green trees and we reminisce of our time on the land. We're not dead. Far from it. And for now we swim.
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