(from Imitation Nature)
At times, even he grew afraid, of the sea and its dark
places.
Others feared him and his power, even envied his row after
row of razor-sharp teeth, his sandpaper hide, his jaws that spread wide enough
to devour anything he chose to eat.
But they never understood his curse, his need for constant
motion, the swishing bubbles and the endless circling to keep him from falling.
Through motion alone, he kept breathing. Through motion he
forced water through his gills.
They feared him because he constantly killed. He had a fire
inside of him the water could not quench – only blood and shredded flesh.
Others moved away when they saw him, small things even
scurrying on the ocean bottom as if they might be next.
He seemed so majestic when he passed over them, leaving his
broad shadow across the bottom like a twin.
But he had no voice the way the lion had, and could not
roar, living his life in silence – perhaps even more terrifying to others who
did not always know when he came near.
They did not understand his hunger or his need to move, and
perhaps they thought him some evil god they could appease with prayer – if only
they could find the right prayer, not knowing no prayer would save them if he
chose them.
He was a glitter of silver in the water, a stirring tail, an
open mouth, a snout always sniffing ahead for the scent of blood, swooping down
like an eagle might, rising with his victim clenched in his jaws.
But he was always hungry – at no moment satisfied – and
always fearful of falling into the darkness below from which he might never
rise, always moving, circling, feeding, watching his own shadow for that day
when he would no longer see it, and knew then, peace.
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