By Kristin W. Davis
Writhing pulse in the tea-colored river, they swarm
toward birthing waters, strange
now in the absence of salt.
The shadow of a gull passes over.
One by one they fling their silver bodies against
a narrowed rush, whitewater
over granite, leap to the next resting pool.
Sixty-nine stone-lined pools, rungs on a ladder.
We come to see them through fields of wild
iris, lupines and buttercups. Swerve
around the stench of flattened skunk.
A pecking crow flap-hops away.
Some alewives slam into stone, wash back
into the pool. Some swim into the metal sluice,
slick with the day’s harvest, lobster bait.
The air heaves with stink.
Five planets and a crescent moon align
overhead, invisible in daylight. A spawning
female lays 60,000 eggs, a dozen survive.
To descend seaward, tail-first down the ladder.
Our origin stories recede, our histories
we piece together as we raise our own young.
Is there any new life that does not retrace time?
Is there any birthing that is not also a homegoing?
Only with concentration can you see a fish dart up
against the fall of water. Like watching for
a shooting star, not sure you really saw.
A momentary streak, generations old.
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My Monday was a pretty typical Monday, involving laundry and chores and some computer stuff. We had perfect weather again, the beach had lots of ducks and geese, the eagle was supervising our dock from the usual tree, the heron was supervising under the dock. We missed the beginning of the Dodgers-Phillies game while it was scoreless for many innings but saw the exciting end, and we saw the start of the Brewers-Cubs game until it became unfortunate for Chicago.
We're watching the start of the second season of Upload, which has a more involved sci-fi and sociopolitical plot but I really dislike the way the women are written this season so there's a high irritation factor. Here are some of the stars of Salmon Days from Issaquah yesterday -- Chinook and Coho, we see the Kokanee in Lake Sammamish where they're protected from fishing by humans but the eagles and herons eat what they want -- in the creek, at the dam, in the fish ladder:
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