The surface of the water is a practiced illusion, a mirror designed to comfort you into forgetting it has depth. Below that thin, shining skin, bodies coil in slow motion, tasting vibrations and scent-trails you never notice. Water snakes turn mud and reeds into a shifting maze where they are the only creatures that know every exit. An anaconda can float half-submerged, eyes and nostrils just above the line, while its vast weight hangs in the dark like a question you don’t want answered.

Farther out, where the bottom drops away and light thins to green, sea snakes write their paths between coral and open blue. They breathe the same air you do, yet belong to a world you only visit. The water was never empty, never harmless. It was always a room with the lights off, waiting for you to realize you weren’t alone.