The Iowa River thawed a month ago. One day, walking over the bridge, I stood and watched the ice break up.

Hundreds of dead fish, their bloated white bellies pushing them to the surface, raced by.

Dozens of dead Canadian geese, their feathers matted with ice and water, jammed against a piling.

I wondered how horrifying it would be to start the day and find no air. The atmosphere suddenly toxic.

But we’ll know soon enough.

For a second, we’ll know. And then we’ll know nothing else. We’ll stream over the dam with bloated bellies and vultures picking us. And finally know what paradise is.