Zen and the Art of Juggling Fishbones

In the space between catch and release,
skeletons dance through air
like calcium constellations —
each spine a lesson in impermanence.

The master says:
hold nothing too tightly,
especially these remnants
of underwater ballets.

Up they go:
herring, salmon, trout
their hollow architectures
clicking like wind chimes
made of yesterday’s dinner.

The trick is not in the toss
but in the spaces between,
where fins once cut water
now slice through empty air.

Three ribs spinning,
a skull doing cartwheels,
vertebrae strung together
like Buddhist prayer beads —
count them:
one breath
two breath
three breath
drop.

In the temple of circus arts,
enlightenment comes
not from sitting still
but from keeping
death in motion.

Each bone knows
its own trajectory,
remembers the currents
that once carried flesh,
now carries wisdom
in whitened arcs.

The juggler’s hands
become rivers,
become nets,
become the void
where fish once swam,
where bones now float
in endless cycles
of rise and fall.

When the last bone
settles in your palm,
you’ll understand:
everything returns
to its beginning,
even these aerial spirits
swimming through
the ocean of air
above your head.

Master says:
catch what you can,
let go what you must,
and never forget —
even empty bones
know how to fly.