We live our lives of human passions, cruelties, dreams, concepts, crimes and the exercise of virtue in and beside a world devoid of our preoccupations, free from apprehension—though affected, certainly, by our actions. A world parallel to our own though overlapping. We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too. Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions, our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute, an hour even, of pure (almost pure) response to that insouciant life: cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing pilgrimage of water, vast stillness of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane, animal voices, mineral hum, wind conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering of fire to coal—then something tethered in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free. No one discovers just where we've been, when we're caught up again into our own sphere (where we must return, indeed, to evolve our destinies) —but we have changed, a little.
Denise Levertov - 1923-1997
Well then, the last day the sharks appeared. Dark fins appear, innocent as if in fair warning. The sea becomes sinister, are they everywhere? I tell you, they break six feet of water. Isn't it the same sea, and won’t we play in it any more? I like it clear and not too calm, enough waves to fly in on. For the first time I dared to swim out of my depth. It was sundown when they came, the time when a sheen of copper still the sea, not dark enough for moonlight, clear enough to see them easily. Dark the sharp lift of the fins.