It is the Fish who speak loudest, scales puffed and gills flared,
Not in violent words or sharp curses, but in the rhythmic intensity of choked bubbles.
It is the Fish who speaks loudest, fins raised toward the heavens like hands ready for battle,
like swords sharpened and rifles readied with course gunpowder toward a foe rising in the horizon.
It is the Fish who speaks loudest, fanatically shifting,
like battleships raised by rich, lionized men, ripping and twisting the seabreeze salt.
It is the Fish who speaks loudest, not in howls but numbers,
crowds of its sickened colleges seen hurt by the bay's poisons.
But I hear nothing but the milky foam that absorbs into the Hudson infinite.