A fish is struggling out of the river, prematurely dreaming it has legs. I watch the river flow from the balustrade of timber and wire, leaning over hoping to see turtles. Instead there’s this goddamned fish and it’s floundering and every flop is bringing it further on to the muddy banks.

Getting down to it would be difficult. I look around at the other scenery seekers and no one’s noticed. I heard whales do this sometimes, but it was because of worm parasites, or the radar from submarines or some equally improbably explanation. The fish, like a silver bolt suddenly flips itself back into the water and vanishes for a moment. I’m relieved, but not as much as the fish, I tell myself. Then suddenly, like a sea-to-sky missile it shoots out again and with a tremendous whip of its tail, brings itself ashore.
What cataclysmic effort that would have taken! What will to accomplish!
The irony, so thick, is gagging. The fish isn’t doing much better having reached its destination.

I wonder what’s going through its mind now. The accomplishment of a dream, always fraught with the realization that nothing is exactly as it is hoped for?
Realizing that tasty flies swim in their own poisonous environment?
But being human is helping those who don’t want to be helped and the scene is too unnerving to simply sit by and watch. Momentary hassle, a bit of discomfort and everyone, fish or not can sleep soundly.
A pair of German tourists have noticed the fish now and seem excited. I look around again for a way to get down to the bank and spot a small path not far from the viewing deck.

I turn to follow it and fail to notice the giant tentacles rising from the river.