jumping humpy

What's it like to see it rain falling on an unbroken ocean plane in reverse?

The drops rise unseen to break the surface, leaving dilating concentric rings while disappearing back into the gray mist above. But before vanishing they lose vertical momentum and slap harshly, crashing through the dark glass.

Impervious to rapidly transforming fissures and commotion above, schools hover below, almost frozen in time and space, except for a slight flutter of tails to maintain their position as the tide ebbs.

A select few leap high and land gracefully, sliding smoothly into the water with silent gusto. The rest arc awkwardly and crack the sea with a cacophony of smacks and thwacks as soft bellies are pummeled by the hard edge of the frigid sea.

My peripheral vision is full of inky shapes blotting the ocean and charcoal mountains. I can't distinguish between swooping birds and sailing fish. Both inhabit a space just mere inches above the undulating tide.

And when their silhouettes mix I don't know which has soared and which has sunk.