The Sermon to Fishes
He was struck with awe at the sight of them:a shoal lifting above the water's surface;
each head trained to his voice's timbre,
each spine anchored for the moment's purpose.
For the sea-dark flock, he fixed his words,
he the shepherd above them.
In the distance the itinerant waves obeyed
by ritual motion. Words flew from him—
How he had rehearsed such a miracle!
Before the silver of their scales, and
the heads in seeming infinite number,
he was great and gathered them in his hunger.
Yet, once lulled, how quiet this multitude—
that like quarter notes broke the water's line
as if hovering above the stillness where the lowest
staff separates music from endless silence.
Though his words had couched their hearing
and their heads above the water were tamed
he was pinned by his eye in water.
Arms outstretched, his figure remained
rooted, and would never master what, in one
movement turning round, they did, descending
guiltless into water, which glimmered darkly
as they fanned out, flying downward.
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