Headwater. Mouth of the river. So hard to understand where it starts and where it ends, to remember the headwater tiny, a trickle, a bubble up out of dry ground, and the mouth—wide as a country. With greater ease I learned the dark swimming moons beside my rowboat in Crystal River were sea cows. Manatees. Their bulbous undulating masses huge enough to tip the boat were live. I couldn't see their eyes or know their heads from ends but I knew not to swim, nearblind, in that river. And so I turned to sinkholes, barren funnels filled with bright water bubbling from the underground springs. Clear. Even with bad eyes. I swam along the tops in teeshirt and cut-off jeans, wide-opening eyes to the clear cold water. I heard one sinkhole swallowed a whole car, and feigned to take a town— a sudden large thing. But that's not what I knew of sinkholes. Mine was one deep V at the edge of a swamp. Few people came there. Rocks weren't set around and there was no formal sign. It was just a known place— you could go for free with the boy you loved. Out of a muggy day you'd dive right in and down you'd go, getting cool and getting clean, knowing it had no outlets and no end you could hold your breath and watch the bright swaying things in this clear water, eyes wide open.
