Both eyes on the left side of the head. That is the first strange thing. The witch is a small flatfish that lies buried in the sand. Only its eyes show. It waits for small crustaceans to drift within striking distance. The name comes from its ability to disappear into the sand as if by magic. A fish that vanishes. The disappearance is total. The reappearance is sudden. The Māori name Mehue reflects this elusive, disappearing quality. Like all flatfish, the witch is born with one eye on each side of its head. As it grows, one eye migrates to the other side. The fish begins to swim sideways. A transformation that would be terrifying in a human. For a flatfish, it is just Tuesday. The biology is routine. The result is asymmetrical. The function is survival. It lies buried in sediment during the day. Emerging happens at high tide. A quick upward lunge captures small crustaceans and small fish. Feeding is most active when the water is high. And the prey is moving. That is the strategy. Wait. Then lunge. The patience is absolute. The strike is efficient. The energy cost is minimal. The reward is immediate. The cycle repeats with the tide. Populations are considered stable. It is not targeted commercially in New Zealand. But it is caught as bycatch in flatfish fisheries. No formal stock assessment exists. That is not unusual. The small, weird, overlooked fish rarely get assessed. The lack of data is common. The status is assumed. The risk is low. For now. A disappearing flatfish with both eyes on the left. Buried in the sand. Vanishing when looked away from. Caught by accident. Mostly fine for now. The "for now" does a lot of work. The stability is conditional. The pressure is incidental. The future is uncertain. But the present is secure. That is the witch. A fish that vanishes into sand. Stares at the sky with two eyes on one side. Asks nothing of anyone. And that seems to be enough. It carries on in the shallows. Unseen. Unvalued by the casual observer. But noted by those who know. It remains in the sediment. A testament to the intact bay. A relic of the wild sand. It waits for the tide. Or it does not. The choice is tidal. The outcome is certain. The fish persists. It moves through the water. Unaware of the name. Unconcerned with the magic. Focused on survival. And the next meal. In the shallow, sandy expanse. Where it belongs. The witch endures. A symbol of the hidden harvest. A staple of the bycatch. It carries on.