When I was a kid, I just saw guppies as pretty. Now I see them with different eyes. The males constantly harassing the females. The females constantly at some stage of pregnancy. The fry always in danger of being eaten. But they don’t all get eaten, and some of them are turning out quite pretty.
I like how this one is turning out to be an orange and black paintbox. Though, honestly, even after a couple of downers having plunked themselves onto the gravel, I lost count weeks ago of how many guppies are in this tank. It reminds of that language I heard of once that only has four numbers to count with: one, two, three…guppies.
Writing Every Day 