the sun bright, cruel-almost terrifying.
The light wasn't silver or gold,
the light wasn't blue or jade,
it was only a sharp, clear air that
somehow blinded me through each thickened cloud.
The time was ten one.
ten three and four,
ten eight, ten thirteen...
The time was soon to be ten twenty,
and inevitably to be ten fifty.
What we called "butter fish"
would fly up in the air when we kicked
at their piles.
Their dead, colorful piles.
The butter fish were red and green,
they drifted with incredible grace and control
all the way to our tiny feet.
The brown ones didn't fly.
The brown ones would melt
into the earth if you stepped on them too hard.
The brown ones were weak and rotting,
dead and dry...
The butter fish, though beautiful,
were fragile in many ways.