My pond’s overrun by guppies again, and at perhaps 2000 gallons, it’s not a small one.
. . . a hidden soul slumbering beneath the sea . . .
When I was a kid, we’d let them reproduce until the water was dark with guppy bodies having nearly no way to move.
. . . is a sleeping guppy resting belly on the bottom . . .
Once we’d achieved a solid guppy block, we’d scoop them up by the bucketsful and transport them down the hill to Pauoa Stream, something I’m now aware we should never have done.
. . . of its silent glass-bowl world so small and all alone . . .
My dad would always hold onto a few dozen to spawn the next generation we’d chauffeur down the hill is six months.
. . . while it slumbers it dreams . . .
In preparation, and always having learned at least something from each repetition of this exercise, my dad would buy another bucket or two to cut down on the number of trips to the stream.
. . . ’tis a shark or a whale . . .
This never worked, there were never enough buckets, there would always be multiple runs.
. . . breaking its boundaries . . .
I learned things from my dad, but one was not this: If you wish to keep guppies, they must be of one sex, or you’ll live that famed history you’re doomed to repeat.
. . . swimming free into watery infinity . . .