Riverrun, past fin and flutter, where the brine-sky boundary blurs into a hushglow horizon, I tumble headlong into the silver-garrulous congregation of dolphins who, in one eternal hairpin exhalation, script their tidal graffiti upon the skin of water, each click-vault syllable ringing a rainbow-parabola across the liquid cathedral, and I am caught inside this sonar-spirograph, hearing how their voices knit lattice-hymns of pressure and pulse that out-juggle grammar, how their agile musculiture is a kind of mid-sentence comma, a sleek parenthetical that both interrupts and propels the paragraph of ocean further, for every leaping arc is an ampersand hitching seawave to skywave, every tail-slap a hyphen wedging abyss with daylight, and so they draft whole epic run-on sagas—no period in sight—about moonfish migrations, about the colour of stormbubbles, about the ache of barnacle drag, about the sugary electricity leaking from coral spires at dusk, until the stories overfoampast my own air-budget, sending me scrambling for breath only to realise their chatter is also breathing, that respiration and narration share a single lung, which enlarges when shared, and thus I borrow their rhythm, inhaling through laughing teeth, exhaling in spirals of thought, letting my syntax elongate like a playful bow-wake, because with dolphins, punctuation is persecution, finality is a beaching, and so we keep rolling, surfing, translating their glitter-quick ideograms into human ear-rumble approximations—something about kinship, something about the superfluid dance of kelp-shadows, something about using the planet’s magnetic pulse as an underline—yet each translation already ages into barnacled prose while their fresh beam-squeaks keep wreathing the water like living confetti, always ahead, always refracting, so I surrender, letting the sentence drown its full stop, letting it stretch like a salt-tinsel Möbius ribbon chasing its own tail, so that, perhaps, one reader, floating here in the after-glow, might taste a flick of dolphin-mercury on the tongue, might feel how language can skip the surface but never truly land, might glimpse how freedom is a verb that never sleeps.