ALL DAY, WE TALK about “the end of the world”: the sun, black as sackcloth: the moon: as blood; country children, the afternoon, smell of petrichor, wind picking up. The bluster silences the others still up front. She appears, glowing above the field out back, like fabric in the wind.
THE SINGLE FISH that is different dives straight down out of the emergent school of fish balled up for protection from the dolphins and diving birds . . . the rest, presumably die, as the unique fish rushes toward the safe rocky nook that swallows it. Hidden. You rock fish.