When the night waters are clear, and the lake surface lies undisturbed, that’s when the bubblebugs gather.

On overhanging branches and overburdened stems they wrap themselves in ribbons of air, tightly bound.

And then, one by one, with a mighty exhalation, the bubblebugs take faltering steps, summon their courage, and dive.

No-one yet knows what they seek in the chill waters below the barocline.

We do know they shape their air-bubble to shield them from a catastrophic impact with surface tension, then carry it down with them, beyond heat, beyond light, where sound echoes long and still.

Their bubble guards them against the chill and the choking water. They hold it close until they surface once more, gasping for breath and desperate for dirt beneath their feet.