Nesting

            My son brought home a male betta fish from camp this summer. He and a few other CIT’s purchased it at a Pinetop Walmart, and named it Glimmer Katniss absurdly after two female characters in The Hunger Games. They are now caring for it in rotation; it’s been our turn for the past month. I’ve been reading about bettas, which need to live alone in still water and whose nervous demeanor and delicate flowing fins disguise an inner demon.

            Glimmer has been busy at the surface producing fish-eyeball sized viscous bubbles that I first took to be a sign of pollution. He uses the same gesture for nabbing floating food pellets, and it turns out that he is indeed gulping air. Bettas can absorb oxygen through a twisted, lung-like labyrinth organ derived from a portion of one of the bones that supports their gills. G.K. is gargling out a nest. He hopes to attract a female who will lay her eggs within the bubble raft and then dart away, leaving him to fertilize to his heart’s content. She will dart because if she lingers the two will soon engage in a fight to the death. Bettas are destined to lead a lonely life.

            If we want to raise little betas, we could place a clear dividing wall in the aquarium along with a female, lifting the barrier for conjugal visits. All other days the couple would stare at each other through the glass, filled with a desire much like my cat’s when he yaps at the birds outside. What’s the point of babies that will only grow up to kill each other? Obviously, a grand Fish-Keeper-On-High might have the same thoughts about us.

            In between water changes, I’ve been skimming off the excess bubble mass with a piece of foam aquarium filter. To skim, I have to open the window.  I don’t think that the betta wants to pick a fight with anything on this side of the Plexiglas. The first time I changed the water, Glimmer leapt from his temporary water glass mini-pool and landed on the floor a foot away from the cat. I was at the sink and heard the soft splat, turning just in time to swoop him up before Copernicus could recover from his surprise and pounce. Maybe Glimmer thought his pond was drying up and used his labyrinth organ for a breath while he soared to a new home, just like our fish-like ancestors all those millions of years ago. Perhaps he is the hope of future generations. In the meantime, Copernicus thinks the sound of an opening aquarium window is exciting enough.

Out My Window

            I like to observe life in front of a window, in a coffee shop or sometimes a bus or train. The pane of glass blocks sound and makes me feel anonymous. I write most often in the morning at my kitchen table when my husband and son are sleeping or just after they’ve left for the day. I don’t like a wall in front of me, so I face the trees and bushes in my back yard, the humming birds and  occasional woodpecker, the ubiquitous doves.

           It’s easier to write about things that are removed by a pane of glass; someone I’m close to is more difficult. I won’t keep a bird inside, not even a gray parrot, so often any that I touch are dead or dying: the hummer in the cobwebs near my garage door or the sparrow lying on the rocks, its body speckled with ants, its eye still alive-looking.

            The address of this blog, silveredglass, comes from the process of making a mirror. When I drink from a silvered glass, what I taste reflects my own taste. When I look through the glass, what I see is a reflection of myself – my preferences and opinions, my passions.

            Here’s a poem I wrote about two years ago when I saw something of my inner world by looking out the window:

HOUSECLEANING

The ash tree’s name

matches its color

in the low light

before the morning’s trash collection.

January reveals in the tree’s branches

an old dove’s nest,

empty but too embedded            

for the ash to discard.

Last spring’s deciduous leaves hang

like disintegrating wall paper,

choked off not by diminished

autumn sun, but in a quick

frost that triggered the tree’s panic. 

Confused by the odd weather pattern,

the lowest branch hovering near

a heat-retaining rock has

an incongruous coat of green. 

The tree lives

in this room and doesn’t

bother dusting the others.

Someone needs to sweep out

those upper branches, just throw out

all that junk.  But the ash

remembers when each broken

leaf was a green bump,

when the birds were first sawing

with their egg teeth,

first signaling with open ruby

funnel mouths, first singing.