Why The Pony Fish Keeps Its Light
A year ago—no four—
after the reunion,
when you and I walked the long morning
around Lafayette Reservoir,
your daughter, Dana, paced herself
ahead of us,
not needing to stumble over the worn stones
of our memories.
I close my eyes, now, and see us
that day:
so many other walkers—
they wave as they pass us
and the trail, going uphill, is steep
sometimes, then drops
suddenly down and twisting--
madrone and eucalyptus,
their branches reaching across and high
over our path, touch,
like friends embracing.
The years before--we were in a hurry:
that day in September—two young girls registering
as freshmen and
walking through Sather Gate for the first time—
we knew, didn't we—
the plan and purpose of our lives—and
later, in San Francisco, buying matching
sterling silver bracelets—
our names inscribed on each other's—then stopping
at Manning's for the coffee we drank standing
under the canopy outside on the sidewalk.
Oh, we were so impressed—and innocent
then to chic.
Because of your daughter's letter,
it's the pony fish I think of today.
During our hike, you told me you had been critiquing
the adaptationist program for your biology students,
telling them that adaptation is for survival,
and it's not how but why that counts,
and the pony fish—
with no place to hide, staying in dark waters,
its silhouette seen from below—
would have become extinct
except for having gone through every stage
of a plausible sequence
to have now a light-producing organ
that shines downward through the viscera—
making its belly glow
so that it matches the light from above, concealing
its silhouette.
I fold Dana's letter
and put it back in the envelope—
what a caring daughter—
and, of course,
I'll keep her surprise birthday party for you a secret,
and I'll be there....
I want to know how we keep it
glued together—
over the distances--the years—
the separate ways and separate callings,
but I suppose it is the why that counts
and, somehow, I think it is Dana
who continues the sequence.
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