What does the salmon feel
just before she starts her death trek home?
Is she pulled by dull aching for a home she’s never known?
Is it a restless burn, driving her from behind?
I feel it, too!
Can the salmon explain what is to be done?
She unerringly thrusts herself up the right
impossible stream.
Me, I don’t know which one to climb.
She shows me
— move! leap! to the death!
I stand below
— which way? when? how fast?
I lose sight of her as she rises.
On Elk Meadow Road 