Part trilobite, part lungfish,

it crawls about the basalt seas

of the Mare Tranquillitatis

subsisting on water it's able

to extract from picograms

of lunar frost via a special array

of gills (programmable nano-

whiskers really—part and parcel

of every synimal biokit, no matter

how rudimentary or cheapjack).

Apparently, however, either

an inexperienced Noachian

constructed the original proto-

type or the lifeware codons

were poorly written, because,

instead of saving its energy

for darkside maintenance,

every time the homeworld

rolls up like a blue bowl of

light, the moonfish attempts

to leap into the "air"

as if some sort of broken-

winged migratory fowl

seeking to rejoin its flock

in an overhead flyway,

only to flop back down again,

writhing about the regolith,

gaffed by its own internal

programming.

Perhaps, despite the presence

of fins and scales, this also

accounts for its proverbial

taste of moonhen.