I am.
The way the light catches the ice
and the prism lights up in all its color.
The storm out at sea.
Wild tangles of waves dancing, dancing.
Rolling back.
I am.
All those bristling backs and hard eyes
and those gleaming teeth drenched with pink spittle,
with blood and a great eternal maw.
The great stomach retching acid.
The great fist grinding stones.
I am.
The sobbing moon that croons across the sea.
The silver-beam cradle and the pearlescent pupil.
The faint corona of the shining iris.
A million tiny stars all spangled out
so far apart, not knowing the pictures they create.
I am.
The tiniest speck of dust on the weed.
Pygmy fishes darting in and out of sunbeams,
the little veins in the leaves
nibbled over and over and mottled.
Flea-bitten flesh and great scabs.
I am.
The proud mountain with its bald cap.
The gentle gust that blows against it,
that shifts the grass and bows it down, but not the mountain.
Its slow death haunts each living moment.
Its ghost walks in its hunched shadow.
I am.
The high sun, casting darkness in pools
at the feet of everything, thinning
the dark feathers to little puddles.
The water that rises screaming to the sky.
The release back to the earth.