Algae worships the tide,
prostrating itself, humbled by
the great cosmic currents dragging
dark water through green teeth like the
blue whales breathe countries, quick meals
of inconsequential things. Thousands of trades
unwitnessed, locked in tombs of darkness, an
endless gulping glugging bubbling tug
swallows the ocean into its maw.
Light ebbs but life persists
tumbling and twisting deep into
chasms unknown like cold distant planets.
Here the tide ends for there is no direction only
the crush of water, millions and millions of gallons pressing
rock into sand, sand into dust, and dust into the tectonic
crust boiling upwards over eons becoming land, something
less similar to the deep sea than our lives to those of flies.
The algae knows not what lurks nearby, only caring that
light still reaches its underwater beaches and the
tide’s pull is weaker than its roots.