By Victoria Krylova, Nonfiction Editor
The morning sun peeks out,
Rolling, rolling gently down the hills,
Spraying its blood,
Skipping, skipping across the valleys.
Swaying, swaying,
I wiggle my fins
In perfect rhythm,
Sputtering, coughing – roaring to a promised life.
Chugging down water,
I burst finally out of my dark cell,
Swallowing the sun, sniffing algae,
Squinting at the first rays of light.
Caught in the wind, riding the waves, I dance,
Wriggling, wriggling through the water,
Tiptoeing, tiptoeing behind the ripples,
Sailing, sailing upon the churning currents.
I poke my nose in the crevices of rocks,
Finning my reflection,
Admiring my silvery scales.
Seaweed sticks to my nostrils,
Irritating my beady eyes.
I splash, I splash through the foam,
Scavenging for the remains of food.
A heron takes off; a raven cries;
The clouds leap to life;
Thunder moans
The howl of alarm.
Suddenly,
Black shadow
Tied up in a net,
I wrangle,
Eying the human figures on board
As I mourn over my life,
Short yet joyful,
The clearness of the lake,
The vastness of the world,
The glory of a fish’s existence
Coming to an abrupt death.
