My sister the diver
From the swollen banks of St. Mary’s
Sank down beneath murky waters
Venturing to census oyster communities, for science.
Near the sludgy river floor
Neutrally buoyant, she made her way
Through silt-swirled depths,
Turbid from recent storms,
Visibility a scant ten inches.
When she reached back to retrieve
Her waterproof clipboard, she felt
A bump to her ribs, then another nudge.
Noticeable, yet forgivable.
So hard to navigate, under these conditions.
Near collisions all but assured in clouded surrounds.
Her dive buddy?
Eyes strained; her outstretched hands palpate the gloom.
She senses the sturdy presence of something big,
Yet no flippers, no tank.
No stream of effervescent bubbles from a regulator.
No A-Ok hand signs; Hmm.
She resumes her mission, observing bivalve mollusks.
A minute later, she ascends topside to find
Her SCUBA partner, mask and forehead peeking above mocha current
Four hundred yards down the bend.
He could not have bumped her, then.
Only here, at the surface, did observations
Meld into explanation:
Brushed by a bull shark.
A beast from the dark, accountable for most shoreline attacks.
Out of place and unexpected, though plausible
On occasion a mighty, dangerous, fearsome creature
Benefitted by its euryhaline nature,
Will wend its way out of the briny Atlantic and up a brackish river.
Her diving chum was
A bull shark.
And yet
She was not targeted.
She was not in danger.
She was not harmed.
This is not a poem about bull sharks.
