the fish

From the beach you can see the giant fish. They are waiting to gulp up the passing ships. The sand is clay and the ocean is a blanket. The sun garnishes the warm cloth. It shines brighter and then the blanket changes color. The fish below change their scales to blend in.

The ships are sitting ducks. They tug the air and contemplate the wind. They frown upon the waves. Below the fish wait for the right one. The plump one. The one that will fill is empty belly for the day. And then tomorrow, more.

The ships still come because they have to. Deliveries have to be made from one society to another civilization. From one land to another house. From one valley to one surface of another world. Deep in the trenches the fish harness their hunger. They swim in schools of thought, but pray to the cowards of love. They swim into a swift current to gain their momentum. One breaks off from the school towards a passing yacht. It's tasty and made of wood. The sails are also filled with ozone and hope. The fish dashes and opens its wide mouth. It's bigger than the ravine near the houses. Water rushes through its gills, its scales are his armor. He gulps the yacht down, and the flavor of ozone and hope is just soothing. Just too tempting to chew, but to swallow in one instant.

The yacht is gone, and so are the dreams of many. But the fish is satisfied and happy to instill its political means for tomorrow's supper.