In the middle of nowhere you find them-
The pieces of net, small remains of larger conquests.
I would say that they are the ghosts of the salmon runs,
The afterimages that remain when the fish and the fishers are gone,
Some of them are from a time when nets were hemp or nettle,
Somehow preserved in the wash of rocks, water, and salt.
And maybe they are still afterimages-
Not of this year,
But of a dead world,
Where waters thick with fish
Dreamed of the emptiness to come.
We carry our ghosts with us in the lands of resources.