Freshly Rooted
Late Sunday
three tourists stop to watch dog salmon
running in Gold Creek.
The three seem
stunned. Maybe moved, maybe not,
but still in the face of this rush of water,
battered bodies thrashing, gaining
on the stream.
Their pausing makes me look
closer. I see quicksilver bodies
growing accustomed to fresh water,
the smell filling their noses, the rightness
of this place.
I see the way their bodies submit,
shapeshift to fit this new water, and
I am filled with envy.