fish fly to heaven

The river, a silver ribbon, always flows. But sometimes, especially when the moon is a sliver, a shimmer in the night sky, something changes. Aflash, a leap, not just a jump for a fly, but a push, a yearning for something more. The salmon, fat and determined, tired of the endless cycle, the struggle against the current, the gnawing hunger. They see it, you know. Awhisper in their scales, a dream that prickles their fins. Aplace where the water is always clear, and the stones are smooth as wishes. Aplace where the jumping is for joy, not for survival. So they rise. First one, a brave pioneer, its body an arc against the stars. Then another, and another. Aflurry of silver bodies, leaving the familiar flow, the muddy bottom, the grasping weeds. They don't flap, not really. It's a kind of swimming, a pushing through the air, as if the sky itselfwere a denser, purer water. Their scales catch the moonlight, each one a tiny, captured star. The herons watch, their necks craned, their eyes wide. They've seen this before, or maybe they just sense it, this departure, this unscheduled ascent. The frogs stop their croaking, a sudden, reverent hush. The fish, they don't look down. There's no regret for the cool depths,