Going overboard for baby pictures: juvenile Caribbean Reef Squid -- Sepioteuthis sepioidea, around 1" a-long with "Open Sea" by Pablo Neruda:
'If, to my hands, from its havocs and bounties,
The Sea might appoint me a ferment, a portion, a fruit,
I would speak for that concord of distance, perspective of steel,
Evenings and airs of alerted extension –
Your power, like a language of whiteness, O Ocean,
The spoilure and rending of columns,
Into innocent essence brought low.
Not yet that ultimate wave in the weight of its brine,
Smashing on the seacoast, conducing
The peace of the sand that encircles the world.
But power and volume concenter,
Capacity ranges the waters,
Unmoved, in the flowing aloneness, in a surfeit of lives:
Time, it may be, or the goblet of motion’s entirety,
Upgathered and brimless with death; original singlehood,
In a charring totality.
The drowned arm, uplifting,
Carries the kiss of the salt in a droplet. From the torsos of men,
A humid perfume on the beaches,
The soaked flower, retained;
Your power in a semblance of squandering force,
Undiminished, returned in a semblance of calm.
The wave, giving away
In a bow of identity, explosion of feathers,
A trifle of spindrift, expends itself headlong
And returns to its cause, unconsumed.
And vigor recovers its origin.
No more than a ruined excess you surrender, O Sea,
Who unhusk what the cargo rejects,
Whatever mobility frees from abundance
Or the cluster of being dissevers.
Farther than sea-surge your form is extended.
Ardent and ordered, like a gesture of breathing
On breast and its vesture, out of isolate being,
Borne up into tissue of light,
Your meadows arise on the billow
And the flesh of a planet is bared.
Substance of selfhood overflows into being.
The crescent of silence is brimmed.
Here is no crater’s dismemberment,
In the cup of the headlands,
Or pinnacle’s emptiness, vestiges, scars,
Patrolling an air’s mutilation:
The goblet is shaken with salt and with honey,
Creation’s abysm of waters,
And nothing is lacking, O Sea!
For the petals of ocean contend with a planet’s pulsation.
The undersea granaries tremble.
Hazard is hung on the smooth of a wave –
A swarming and swimming of schools –
And only the mesh of the netcord, ascending,
Draws up a fish-scale’s extinction of lightning
One wounded gradation of distance,
In the crystal’s accomplished perfection.' ~ "Open Sea" by Pablo Neruda
here's looking at you, squid