There was a fish between the moon and me.
Pausing right there in the center of the silver ring. It was a parrotfish eclipse. That or a signal to the crime-stopping Parrotfish Man.
I floated 20-feet beneath the surface just off the sea floor, as if in space. A bubble of air escaping from my mask, rising like a shooting star.
Inside my lungs, a gulp of salty air. Outside, the Atlantic Ocean. I held my breath. I breathed in the sight.
The night was a gift. The surface of the water, indiscernible from beneath, didn’t even have a ripple, allowing the moon and the stars to appear as untouched as if I were on the surface.
Minutes passed, but were forever captured.
I’m not sure how many times the Earth had rotated around its axis since the first of the year. But it was Earth Day. Well, not an actual day, but a moment, a moment unique to Earth.
There was life-giving gas in my lungs, an embryonic ocean surrounding me. A universe that stretched light years in which any closer or farther from the slowly rotating planets and stars, the moment would not be possible.
I shared the moment with a parrotfish. It swam from the moon leaving a galaxy of sandy poop. I broke the surface and took a breath.
Because on Earth that’s what we do.