Social Behavior in Coral Reef Seahorses

In the shallow, sunlit waters of the coral reef, the little seahorse seems to gasp—a curious sight in such clear, bright surroundings. Though he has survived the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean, this delicate creature now navigates the gentle sway of sea grass beds and shallow lagoons.

Seahorses are unlike most fish. They swim upright and use their prehensile tails to anchor themselves to coral or plants, helping them stay safe from currents and predators. Their eyes move independently, allowing them to scan for food and danger simultaneously. Notice how his tail gently curls around the sea grass, securing him like an anchor, and observe his eyes—looking in two different directions at once—revealing the quiet mysteries this small creature holds.

Yet, despite these remarkable adaptations, he drifts quietly beneath the sunlight, almost sulking, as if waiting for a storm to arrive. He longs for more warmth, more movement, more excitement—but his tiny bubbles burst quickly in the calm water, fragile signs of his delicate nature.

This seahorse often displays surprising behaviors; he now seems to seek the company of other reef creatures: starfish, dolphins, and the shimmering glow of jellyfish that light up underwater gatherings at night.

Strange company for a seahorse. Seahorses are known for their monogamous bonds, often forming lifelong partnerships. Each day, mates engage in intricate dances and color changes to reinforce their connection—a ritual unique in the animal kingdom. This, however, is something a starfish or dolphin could never understand. In fact, the starfish and dolphin do not wish to understand.

Yes, they move boldly in open water—visible, admired, but vulnerable to predators and human hunters—while the seahorse explores the reef and meets many neighbors, yet may overlook his most important discovery: himself.

If the seahorse wishes to survive he must return to his nature—tucked safely in coral crevices and sea grass beds with the other seahorses. Here, he lives as a subtle, enchanting presence within the vibrant and fragile ecosystem of the reef. 

Careful What You Fish For

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” - Theodore Roosevelt

Dear little seahorse,
what makes you gasp
in these clear,
superficial shallows?

The sun shines
all the way to the bottom—
you, who have survived
the darkest depths,
should know how to breathe here.

But no—
you float in sunshine,
still sulk like it’s storming.
You say, “Not enough sun!”
“Not enough fun!”
“Adventure, please—extra splash!”
But your bubbles burst too fast.

Remember that crab
you once cried over?
Now offers to share a cozy shell—

but no, no—
now it's starfish you want.
And dolphins. And sea parties
with jellyfish disco lights.

You want more, more, more—
the whole reef or none at all.

But sweet sea pony,
you could meet every fish in the reef
and still miss the one creature
you really need to know.

When’s the last time
you said hi to yourself?

Perhaps, while watching
where everyone else swims,
you forgot where you’ve been,
where you are, where you're going—

forgot how your tail curls tight
around swaying grass,
how your eyes see two truths at once,
how your daily, delicate dance
deepens love that lasts.

You vanish into coral—
a quiet magic.
The starfish and dolphin
dance in the open—
watched, wanted,
caught, and often killed.

hermit year (reprieve)

How I once delighted in the thought

of folding endlessly into myself,

cradled in the quiet of only-child solitude—

a life I once treasured, now trembling.

The bridle tightens, my mane pulled

into clumsy yet unmistakable truths:

this was never how it was meant to be—

a single stall, the world blurred at my periphery.

I turned to poor company—screens—

to hearts that lit red,

to the comfortless rhythm

of ones and zeros winking at me.

I havent liked a single thing I've 'liked'

for weeks now.

And dreams of tomorrow?

Even poorer company still.

I should return to galloping—

wind, sun, and the wild beating

of hooves beside me:

the ones who loved me

even when I could not love myself.

I am tired,

worn from polishing in private—

the dull ache of unseen work

never meant to shine for anyone.

Let the viral posts wait. Let the inbox swell.

Let the to-do list yellow in the light.

Perfection is a myth I no longer feed—

its never ending need,

its reward, dust.

My dry mouth wants more.

My hermit year was not meant

to bury me deeper in shadow

but to lift me—

strong flanks, bared teeth—

northward, where I know I belong.

The South has broken me in.

Now, I lean not on pride

but on God,

and on the goodness found

in crooked lines, spilled ink,

and half-built sanctuaries.

Until I arrive at the homecoming

I’ve been hungering for

all my life.

no one knows more than me

You want him.

You want him to want you.

You want to be wanted—

by someone, anyone. He’ll do.

But he doesn’t. Not really.

You’re a warm body in a long line,

just like he’s a name

you barely bother to remember.

It isn’t love. It isn’t want.

It’s hunger with a pretty-enough face.

It’s a hole you keep feeding—

and still stays hungry.

Tell Me No

Is getting a gun permit in Alabama

as easy as getting a marriage license

in Indiana—

both a government sanctity,

to have and to hold?

I’m not sure.
But rejection feels more likely
when you're trying to publish a poem.

One poem. One rejection.
That’s 100%.

A true Libra—indecisive,
relieved someone else called it.

I love rejection.

Tell me no, and I can lie back—

no work, no hope, no follow-up.

No more what-ifs.

No juggling.

Don’t ask what I want.
Just tell me what won’t happen.
Not now. Maybe never.

Maybe a gun permit in Alabama

isn’t like a marriage license in Indiana

at all—

maybe it’s not even like a rejected poem:

filed away, too tired to explain.

Just know
you could tell me no.
Tell me no again.

No. To a gun permit.

No. To marriage.
Or yes—twice.
No. To a poem.
You make the call.
I'll accept it.

I couldn’t defend myself—
no gun, remember?
Couldn’t run—
households are heavy.
I could write.
But who would read it?
Two people.
Maybe. Maybe not

sleep with me

My body is changing.
I call it perimenopause—
but who really knows?

I wake at 2:30.
Sometimes 3.
Once, 3:30.
I don’t sleep
straight through anymore.

I rise in the hush,
pad to the bathroom,
scatter more kibble
for the cats,
then drift back to bed.

And there you are—
mewing softly,
curling by my head
or tucking yourself
beneath my arm,

purring that warm,
small engine of comfort
until morning finds us—
no alarm,
just light.

the day my aunt told me a story about her 7 lb. cat who dragged a 12 lb. turkey to the other room and growled until she ate it clean

I was petting a cat who had once bitten me

with the hand that still bore—

a mark so faint a lover wouldn’t see it—

only me, who remembers the impact.

I was petting that now-purring cat

with that same hand when you answered

the phone. Hurt fades as we encounter

kindness. The feral cat who once bit—

a huge monster then—

now rests on my lap months later.

Enough treats, enough food, enough kind words

can soften even claws.

It’s the same thing that got me

to call you—

and you to answer,

“Happy Julie’s birthday.”

Your dead sister. My dead mom.

I had forgotten.

It’s that same thing

which lets us talk about anything but my mother—

about all the cats you’ve tamed,

the ones I’ve just started.

We agree:

no matter the time,

no matter how sweet,

inside, always—

a bit of the feral remains.

Maybe, inside me, that wild speck,

that lone cell—probably a neuron,

maybe muscle—

just days ago

saw you as looming black winds,

ready to sweep me into darkness.

Feeble like a child—

a child whose whole world,

every emotion,

was implanted by your jealous sister,

my dead mother.

How I was fearful of the worst.

What exactly, I couldn’t say.

Yet today, you seem the mother

I wish I had.

The woman I wish to become.

My mother was right

to be your jealous sister.

But now I know—

she was my jealous mother as well.

We—two feral cats

she could never fully tame.