Do fish see water as they glide,
the way we never see the air,
the quiet cradle always there,
the world that holds us from inside?
Do minnows note the silver sway
of currents brushing scale and fin,
or is it simply where they’ve been,
the backdrop of another day?
Perhaps they sense the shift instead:
a colder drift, a sudden pull,
a pressure change, a ripple’s lull,
the things that stir the living thread.
And maybe we are just the same:
blind to the element we breathe,
to all the gifts we never leave,
to miracles without a name.
For every creature, great or small,
is held by something vast and near;
we only see it disappear,
and then we notice it at all.