Fish Calendar

In January ice glitters like silver pipes on the scaffolding, cliquant, sugared with frost. The fish swim in orange blurs beneath the surface of the pond.

In February the snow banks melt amid white fire, the sky fills with plumes of white steam. The fires turn scarlet once more, burning gold in the summer where the magic has touched it.

In March the fish come out to greet the sun, flashing their scales like pinprick stars under the twilight sky. In the shortening nights they test the ice, thin and brittle as hard candy, that keeps them in.

In April the ice melts and the pond floods into the grass. Fins press against tender damp soil, caress reeds and water weed. Cattails bob, dandelion tufts like silver silk skim the water like nymphs.

In May the fish's blood begins to warm, like hot tea in one's throat. They move, test the small currents and eddies made by slight breezes. They congregate. They plan.

In June the fish are ready, but they must hide. Droves of children appear from schoolyards, flocks of reaching hands and splashing fingers and deceptive flashing bait. The fish hide and avoid temptation.

In July the fish are restless, swimming in circles, half-filled with relief that the children are mostly gone or uniterested. Still, they travel in schools, keeping their shining scales to themselves.

In August they watch the birds with envy. They wish for feathers, fine and iridescent, instead of scales. Talons for fins. The children return again, slipping on the muddy banks as they run past.

In September the pond is filled with coins. Children toss them in, flipping them. The water ripples. The pond has become a minefield. The fish take cover in the withering cattails.

In October the fish test the air. It is cooling, and their panic makes it cooler. It smells of fire and leaves. Birds migrate, cardinals like phoenixes in the sunsets. The fish flash their scales in solidarity.

In November the fish feel their blood cooling, slowing. They move in langurous circles, unafraid of the children, bitter of their missed chance. Ice is forming on the pond. It's crackle sounds like thunder.

In December the fish have forgotten their sorrows. They look at the grey sky and see sun and greenery ahead. They wait, patiently, for their next chance.

Text by Lucie MacAulay