Women slap midday pavement in their sandals, dressed in swimsuits in an assortment of sizes at the hot spring. Two eleven-year olds sport zero curves, run soupy mud onto their tiny thighs. I dive for a hammock with a hat slung low on my forehead from under which I can still spy the ample hourglasses of souls, and I speculate what they do in other days. One with a face flat and broad, skillet of knowledge, I imagine flown in from an ancient island. Here she absent-mindedly rubs her partner’s neck just at the hairline. My mother dog paddles in an iron-infused pool out of reach. Her white hair accentuates her blue eyes and suit. She looks over toward me and sighs. Submerges up to her shoulders. Two new arrivals are painted. One butterfly tattoo etched across a chest with wings that seem to flutter above a line of stretchy lycra. One thousand eyes in this damp span of moth wings wet with mountain runoff. Another’s thigh wrapped with ink garter.