I watched a sunfish die on the dock
after the cats had grabbed it.

The boards were sun-bleached, warm beneath
the curling flesh—
water close enough for it to sense,
but not to reach.

I knew then that life was no longer sustainable.
And yet I was compelled to observe.

For a moment, the body still held the memory
of where it belonged—
winking lights of orange and jade
flashing, each scale refracting,
as if refusing to let its animation go.

It was beautiful in a way that hurt,
not despite what was happening,
but because of it.

The shimmer remained longer than the breath,
as if water were still articulating through the body,
as if light itself were reluctant to leave.

Then something thinned.
Not suddenly.
Just… less.

The brightness softened.
The colors dulled.
The knowing imbued in all of life
withdrew.

That was when I understood:
luminosity is not something living beings own.
It is something that happens
when conditions are right.

A sunfish does not shine everywhere.
It shines in water.

On the dock, even beauty cannot survive
its own displacement.

I have seen this elsewhere.

Trees pulled from the ground
lose their upward intelligence.
Birds held too long
forget their knowledge of flight.

And humans—
when we exist inside shapes that are not our own,
in roles that constrict,
relationships that deny the body,
identities or spiritual frameworks
that silence instinct—
we languish.

Not all at once.

At first, there is still shimmer.
Memory.
Habit-light.

Then less.

Not because the human being is lacking,
but because we are out of our element.

And here is the quiet truth
the dock revealed to me:

every being deserves to live
where it can reveal itself—
and to release its light
where it belongs.

The sunfish lost its shimmer on land.
Humans lose theirs in falsity.

Luminosity is contextual.
And context is everything.

Shimmer on sand ~ bj 2014