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It can happen quick as soft ice under foot; a drowning- Heading home after the last trampoline somersalt set his head to spinning, the boy walked into the winter night, alone- There were no stars, no pathway shone by December's moon; It was as dark as the silence beneath the backyard pool, sunken flush for safety- He knew the way; a short-cut taken many times in daylight. It was winter, it was cold; There would be skating soon; It was a simple thing to step on black water all heavy with snow-suit warmth. First, the surprise of it startles you; the weight like cement pockets sends you down, deeper than outstretched boots can touch bottom- Then, your breath, a thing always there, gone- And your fingernails hurt from scraping the too smooth mortar; it was, afterall, a pool for fish, not a pond, or even a rink, a pool for fish- And you come up for air gasping like one, scaleless and scared, your mittened hands clinging to an imperfect edge, your boots like cruel stones pulling you down. But the edge is all you need; something to claw yourself up and onto a cold, snowless lawn. You lie on your belly like a brown, woolen carp. You scream a silent shiver,then walk home soaked through to your heart that pounds louder than a drum, beating you back into yourself, still young, but more afraid of things in the dark.