written in sand outside the reef, washed away by the ever shifting current: for a moment in gentle scrapes for all creatures of the sea to witness
Buried in sand,
endless weight to cover me
from the hearts of the reef,
the schools flashing bright,
families safe among the coral.
What sick power, my dread tail.
What harsh weight, my dread tail.
What venomous burden, my dread tail,
to flint behind my gentle smile.
Out in the wastes where the current pushes
trash, bottom feeders, invertebrates
into the cavernous maw of the Trench.
Eight Legged Air Breather,
Angus the Knight, Axo Wreathed in Glitter,
and my kin, Jet:
we heard the Singing Mountain.
Gleeful and keen we danced hello,
sang back its melodies learned and cherished.
A disinterested snort, "Do not stand in the way of Mountains, little things."
Is there no difference in the cruelty the large give the weak
from the cruelty the safe give the vulnerable?
With fury gathered
the band clung and clashed.
The Singing Mountain rose rose rose rose rose rose rose
ROSE!
to breach Heaven.
And though the kiss of God's breath was brief, it was enough.
Guided by rage and the force of We,
The Mountain sank,
choking desperately,
all of us wrapped in the darkness of ITS Life.
Except,
Eight Legs covered the mouth of the Mountain,
its song sputtered and squelched,
the last note came softly, freeing We with a belch.
--
In the glory after,
no other fish did see,
Me or Jet as heroes,
Our dread tails say it aloud:
THE TIDE MAKES HOMES OF US ALL.