Alien by Jenna Korman

if an alien from outer space landed in the middle of the ocean at midnight - armed with nothing but its space tech, and the human definitions of the sky and the sea during the time of night they inhabit, would they be able to tell the difference?

both deep, dark expanses, a blanket of black suffocating the shades of blue beneath. scattered across it are varying specks of white light, twinkling with what seems like joy. would they know what that meant - joy? if they were all alone?

how could they know which is which? how could they distinguish between the moon's reflection, and the stars they know? 

of all beings on earth, they, uniquely, would know the life held beyond what we can see of the sky. much like the unexplored ocean, we can only dream of what might exist past our capabilities. 

would the alien be able to feel the difference, instinctively? recognizing the sky as its way home? or would it be turned upside down - it’s foreign sense of direction lost, dizzied and confused? would it be scared?

the ocean - would it be able to differentiate between the alien and the human? it’s UFO, delicately resting on the water, much like our own ships. uninvited and vulnerable to its whims - to the ocean, would the difference even matter?

would the fish be frightened of the alien? have we taught them to be? when they scatter, would it be because of their skittish nature, or because they mistook the alien for one of us?

if they were frightened, would they have reason to be? if they weren’t, should they be? would the alien - just gracefully landed, resting in the stillness it’s surrounded by - give our ocean, and all of the life it holds, the gentleness it deserves?

 have we? if it did, that might be what shows the ocean the difference. would that make it care?