The Sturgeon Moon

The stirrer matures in the muddy night,
deep pools of black for him to glide.
Living fossil, his snout points high,
relic of a late summer sky.

The elder wears his armored scutes,
barbels long as full grown shoots.
Open mouth without a tooth,
he scoops the season wide.

The sturgeon has no need for trust;
his habits are anadromous.
The year is ripe and at its cusp,
and he can swim without a strike

with skin that is sandpaper-like,
and an austere row of blue-gray spikes.
The secret to his lengthened life:
a bottom feeder never dies.

Β© 2022 | K.Hartless


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