There is a piano floating on a lake.

The keys are half-submerged, and the fish are tapping out licks of jazz.

Drunken melodies bob across its wake as the Steinway cuts a path through mangroves.

The lightest of sun showers tickles the strings, fills the body with liquid light.

Minnows make their homes in waltzes that careen and swirl in tiny whirlpools.

An old, three-stringed guitar at the lake’s floor swims along, strummed by strands of seaweed.

Rope swings braid themselves into ballets as the orchestra dives beneath the trees.

Handel would be proud, I thought idly, as a carp finds its calling in composition.

His dream finally realized, in a molding, soaked coat of what once was probably ivory but is now something akin to barnacle,

And a dancing brocade of kelp, woven its way through strings of steel.