i cast a line into the white eye of the rapids and see
the salmon through this retina, swimming home
full of spawn and salt from their holiday. that is
over. now comes the business of growing up –
to manoeuvre their sleek forms upstream, past
the currents and the smaller fish up the mountain.
but the river will empty into a freshwater lake that
is suctioned into the air by the blackening clouds as
day flows backwards into night. the forest blooms
retire to their beds underground and the bears, who
had waited for the salmon to return all summer long,
shrink into cubs and are swallowed whole by
their mothers. the salmon die on the pink bedrock.