Ode to the Fish by Ellen Bass Nights when I can’t sleep, I listen to the sea lionsbarking from the rocks off the lighthouse.I look out the black window into the black nightand think about fish stirring the oceans.Muscular tuna, their lunge and thrashchurning the water, whipping up a squall,storm of hunger. Herring cruising,river of silver in the sea, wide as a lit city.And all the small breaths: pulseof frilled jellyfish, thrust of squid,frenzy of krill, transparent skin glowinggreen with the glass shells of diatoms.Billions swarming up the water column each night,gliding down at dawn. They’re the greased motorthat powers the world. Shipping heatto the arctic, hauling cold to the tropics,currents unspooling around the globe.My room is so still, the bureau lifeless,and on it, inert, the paraphernalia of humans:keys, coins, shells that once rocked in the tides—opalescent abalone, pearl earrings.Only the clock’s sea-green numeralsregister small changes. And shadowsthe moon casts—fan of maple branches—tick across the room. But beyond the cliffsa blue whale sounds and surfaces, cosmicladle scooping the icy depths. An artery so wide,I could swim through into its thousand-pound heart.
