Standing
on the Western edge
of this continent
staring into the darkness
the soft, gray void where
sky meets water infinitely outward,
the ambassadors of the human race
wait with flashlights
and buckets
surveying the remaining dregs
of each retreating wave.
Thirty, fifty feet out to sea,
eight thousand translucent
hand-length Grunions
bob with the tide,
waiting for their brains
to respond to the conditions,
to set into motion a series
of instinctual reactions.
In pairs, they race
toward the shore
inside a breaking churning wave.
Their silvery scales catch
on the firm sand
In an instant, the male is on her,
his body bent around the female,
contributing his half
of the equation.
The female digs her tail down
into the moist soil,
laying her eggs, buried.
Meanwhile, beams of light
from the excited people, waiting
swing in her direction,
like spotlights on a stage,
her monologue
from one race to another.
She writhes free and shoots
from the sand, flipping,
suffocating, leaping toward water,
praying that the next wave
will carry her back to sea.