Sometimes they swim. Sometimes the town and all the people tell of swimming. A church or two will open a door for a while and water seems real. They swim when they can, in an hour of need or wish you could tell. No one wants a bird anymore.
All the fish are marvelous but the sky opens anything. Surefire rain on the same day as everything, and the people know it. They have been here, and there. Here and there each centre the people. One town is naturally another. People are like that.
Today the people wonder swim. They have didactic reasons and a full wavery diction. Tunes pop up like asking more. Sometimes no word is left, only the floating thing on the water, thing. You could hold the day open, or closed. The people will try any island.