Of a fish

Have you ever seen a fish stand on the water? I did. It was using its forked tail as a foot. But as it stood above water, it couldn’t breathe. I could tell. Everyone there could tell. The other fishes tried to pull it back in to the water, but it wouldn’t move. It seemed captivated by something. One could almost make out a sparkle of wonderment in its eyes. Soon, the fish started to turn pale. It was dying. A sparrow, who’d been staring at this strange fish from atop a pine tree, grew anxious. It had no intention of witnessing a death. So it swerved down, just close enough topple a droplet water on the fish’s snout, hoping that the fish would be frightened. Still, the fish did not move. Then finally I realized what it was that kept it enduring the breathless air: A world beyond the quivering film, a fresh, new world. That was all it needed; some reprieve from the mundane underwater.

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