A quicksilver globe of massed sardines,
Hundreds strong, with unified mind,
Moves frantically as one,
Shimmering in sunlight as it turns,
Shifting in perfect synchrony,
Each fish both leader and follower,
Orbited by a dozen long shadows, sailfish
Hunting in a pack, pushing the prey
Into ever tighter formation,
Taking bites in turn
With a rush and flare of the dorsal fin.
The rapier bills stab with precision,
Corralling, swatting, gulping,
The melanophores in their skin
Iridescing with the thrill,
And soon the feast is over,
And the sailfish quit the scene,
Leaving drifts of sardine scales
To lilt down in the blue.
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