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THE MOVEMENT OF FISH No water is still, on top. Without wind, even, it is full Of a chill, superficial agitation. It is easy to forget, Or not to know at all That fish do not move By means of this rippling Along the outside of water, or By anything touching on air. Where they are, it is still, Under a wooden bridge, Under the poised oar Of a boat, while the rower leans And blows his mistaken breath To make the surface shake, Or yells at it, or sings, Half believing the brilliant scan Of ripples will carry the fish away On his voice like a buried wind. Or it may be that a fish Is simply lying under The ocean-broad sun Which comes down onto him Like a tremendous, suffusing Open shadow Of gold, where nothing is, Sinking into the water, Becoming dark around His body. Where he is now Could be gold mixed With absolute blackness. The surface at mid-sea shivers, Drowning With Others 5 7 But he does not feel it Like a breath, or like anything. Yet suddenly his frame shakes, Convulses the whole ocean Under the trivial, quivering Surface, and he is Hundreds of feet away, Still picking up speed, still shooting Through half-gold, Going nowhere. Nothing sees him. One must think of this to understand The instinct of fear and trembling, And, of its one movement, the depth. 58 ...

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