Small fish spinning and flashing silver through the
afternoon air
Like spent coins
Papa-san crouches barefoot on a rock, picking dead
goldfish out of the pond
Summer is hot,
and the pond liner is full of holes
One arches and flops in the ash on the ground in
what once was a garden
Shocked back to life by his sudden
flight
Another is living still as well;
a small, bubble-like mouth hinging open and closed for breath
I release both back into the pond, weak, fluid
and submissive
Later, a huge bird of prey wings its
way around and out of sight behind the cedar and juniper
trees circling the pond, too fast to see clearly or identify
Before we leave on a hike, my
little brother gathers all of the spent, tiny fish into a small
pile
Among long stems and narrow leaves of
miniature white wild flowers.
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