The Carp

By Violet Russell

A timid gray swishes 
Near the bottom of the tarn, 
It’s movements thinly 
veiled by long grass or 
Idle lily pads, affording 
a sense of modesty 
To the small creature. 
The carps large underbelly 
Scratches up against 
quartz pebbles, 
Weaving between 
A submerged log and 
An abandoned sandal 
Stuck deep into the 
Tan mud, nothing much 
Happens here.
The duskless night 
Rolls over the hills, 
And settles down, 
Letting its weight pull 
The edges of light 
Towards the tree line. 
Soon there is nothing, 
And nothing much happens. 
The birch whispers 
from the slight breeze, 
Snapping twigs off 
It’s budless branches, 
Nothing of importance happens, 
And the last traveler drives 
Out of the parking lot, 
Leaving a receipt for 
Chewing tobacco near the bank,
absolutely nothing that matters, 
And the carp does not 
Dream, it just continues 
It slow weaving between 
The weeds, grating layers 
Of scales off its stomach, 
Digging deeper into the skin, 
Tender pink nothing, nothing, 
Nothing. 
I become nothing