Joan Conway
In August when summer has not let go
of dappled green sunlight,
liquid reflections capture red bodies like ruby jewels
slipping through speckled gravel beds rubbed smooth
by their return.
We witness salmon's quiet determination,
bring our visitors awestruck
by this turbulent journey
from the ocean.
One visitor, a monk in exile from Tibet
stops at the river bank to rest from his teachings,
steps into Hirsch Creek,
his sandaled feet brush the ever moving bodies
a mirror to his own journey
where stories anchored
in another place in time
too search for their birth place.
His crimson robes are gathered in folds
above the moving water
as though these sockeye have exploded
in waves about his shoulders,
for a moment free to travel
unencumbered in a current of wind
a flag warning us
of this ever fragile landscape.
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