Sun beckons to phytoplankton as
a dinner bell beckons to guests,
and in their finery, their congruous bodies
bejeweled, charms manifest.
One sports a pocket watch on an ornate
golden chain, but time's forgotten as they
mill about and bask. Meanwhile zooplankton
are anxious for the day to pass
so that, with darkness' disguise,
they may rise to gaze upon the stars.
Segmented carapaces slot together
like armour to cast the evening in
to rancour and right on cue, on their
spindly feet, a copepod begins to
feast upon an autotroph's delicious meat.
A cladoceran in tails inquires as to
what the entree entails, and an
artfully adorned veliger proclaims
her partiality to diatoms in sauce as
an hourglass' grains of sand
quietly keep track of how long
the creatures have.
And when dawn brings light
to kiss the surface, zooplankton
slink down to darker waters, but not
without a few of their party
being claimed as the main course
for another. Upon departing,
the mood is grim, but they could do
no other thing.
As tides roll in and out with
accordance to the moon, so too
do the days roll in and out to
the metronome of the earth's axis.
And now, as long as the sun
exists, the plankton will migrate with it.
How convenient it must be
to rank in infinite hierarchies,
for rules of etiquette to be absolute,
with seaweed dresses and plankton suits;
to live laterally.