Along the riverbed
beneath the rose
and lavender sky,
I see them swimming
against the current's logic,
bodies flexed toward
an invisible shore
where they go
to cover their eggs
in a blanket of sand
and die. Called
by the wind's swift
shift to chill, drawn
from the calm waters
of drifting and sunlight,
far from this stream
where they battle
the fierce rush
of the living, bones
softened to a curve,
silver-blue scales
red as camellias in bloom.
They swim as if
they believe endings
should be beautiful,
sheathed in the red
of their hearts,
glistening beneath
the water's gleam.