Fish

The cracks on the surface of the water
Kill my thoughts of large fish. Fish that
Hunt just as we do, reaching away from death's grasp
And never being able to fully shake it. Maybe
Death is what we are afraid of. But it doesn’t help
To make suffering a notion of equilibrium. Still
The big fish exist beneath the surface of my mind,
And they never come out to play. Not
With me at least. Still, I wonder. The water is icey
And hard
But the fish aren’t impressed, nor impressive
They drift in the smooth yet rippled currents
And I hunt them with the others
Just without really looking, but feeling their panic

The hold of grace chokes them far from the river's edge
Fish aren't graceful, but just like me they take their time
And move according to the nature of their will
Or else it’ll be mayhem
Underneath the ripples
Or else it’ll be mayhem
And they’ll swim closer to my makeshift blade

The light
It hits the scales of some fish with startling clarity
I don’t think I’ve seen such fast colors before
And they run
Away from me when I feel sympathy unlike the others
Who reach under the surface of the water
With dirt
Caked on their hands and stuffed in the cracks
Of their fingernails

The cracks remind me of my own species
And I pick up where I left off
Sifting through images of dead fish
Floating underneath the ice