The male betta gleams majestic in his bowl.
You can’t pair two—death flares in their clash.
One lone fighter swims a glass-ringed world.
My bright red betta crowns my table.
Fins flared, he’s fire—a rippling blaze.
Threatened, he puffs gills, spreads silken sails,
ballooning vast to bluff the unseen foe.
He spies his shadow in the curved glass,
poses fierce, prances for phantom war.
Two in jars: endless posturing, tireless dance—
hours of bravado, ripples chasing threat.
At peace, they shrink, neon tetras in miniature.
We mirror these bowl warriors—
flexing muscle, brandishing steel when cornered.
True courage acts, skips the ritual show.
Yet wise ones posture, ape the fish, and live.
