One day last semester I decided to eat at the Sadler Center for breakfast, something that I would do every now and then when I managed to get out of bed before noon. After finishing, I headed back to my room, passing by the Crim Dell on my way. This time, however, two slices of bread sat on the wooden fence bordering the Crim Dell and the road.
I was intrigued.
I thought about it for a second, and then looked down. Fish! I couldn't see too many, but I saw some. So I began to tear the bread up in small pieces and feed them.
And then it began. Fish from all parts, swimming towards the floating pieces of bread, racing. Bread like raindrops, splashing inwards in a vibrant display of energy, the motion of fish concentric. Something like ripples and gravity.
I go back whenever I can, taking a slice of bread or two from the Sadler Center. Turtles show up now as well. (They -- like the koi that show up from time to time -- aren't as nimble as the smaller fish, so I try to be fair by throwing closer to them every few pieces.)
I wish I could swim with them, rub up against their scales and shells, and say, "Thanks for making me smile."