Do the benthic creatures ever look up?
Would they mistake my buoyancy for flight?
I float amongst a constellation of bioluminescence
Perpetually bathed in hues of blue light
To the bottom of the ocean, I am a bird
To the birds, I am a negligible ant in the dirt.
But I’m not foolish enough to try the things they do.
I despise the excessive energy they exert.
Why do they fly when they never reach the moon?
If they want control of the tides, they’ll never gain it.
Why do the infauna dig despite never reaching the Earth’s core?
To join their molten kin among the layers of the planet?
They won’t need to bury themselves any longer.
The world’s untimely decomposition will do it first.
Smoke-soiled clouds seep into the sea
Under hypoxic water I remain submersed.
When the great conveyor slows,
And the oceans someday dry,
I will suffer the same fate as those I pity.
I will suffocate in the mud to pass the time.
Nothing else left to do, then.
I’ll hide in a hole in the earth while waiting to die
An imprint of my bones will stain the mountains
The only tangible thing to remember me by.
Until then, I am a bird.
The Tributary 
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