The fish return as the snow melts.
Every stroke upstream one step closer to death,
To the birth of those who will supplant them.
Long years in infinite space, vast waters,
Vanish to the narrow points of choked rivers,
The thin patch of water in front becomes
The only remaining horizon.
Is it the same as when they left, younger and less scarred?
Do they remember that path, these waters in any way other than
The instinctive itching under their skin?
Hard to say as they thrash against the net,
Glittering and choking, raised in offering
To the distant sun.
We eat and live on the backs of others’ trials. Sometimes it’s important to remember that.