To Which We Return

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,

Strangled streams.

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.

IMG_0628Some paths are harder than others

We eat and live on the backs of others’ trials. Sometimes it’s important to remember that.

For more returns, dangerous and otherwise, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.

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