of vision. Fish at the marsh

edge on an ebb tide. I walked

over. Took a photo. A photo. A

photo. In air, gold-eyed

and rust speckled. How long

that moment for the fish,

for me. Then I put my hands

just behind the gills, breathed

into right grip, and moved

so water could pass over frill.

I called up to ask if anyone

would like to see? To see? They

shook their heads, silent, silhouetted

against sky. They knew better

than me. And so I let it—

silver hake—go. I thought

I’d seen it so clearly, slick, vivid

muscle in my hands, bronze

body in bronze sand. But,

home, I flipped through, pinched

and zoomed, held and beheld

again, which is when

I saw the perfect circle pressed

into flank which had to be made

by one ring of a scalloper’s mesh bag.

Which is why—bycaught & tossed back

as the crew was steaming home,

marsh sucking tide into

its big lungs, shucking &

tossing all but the marketable muscle—

we came upon this fish

who shares a blush

with the scallop’s shell. Who

swims over their beds. Who wasn’t

intended to be caught up in all this

but was.