You thought the salmon
leap frenzied. That drive electrified me.
Likewise that fly's slurpy buzz. It was so heavy; psychedelically black and fat.
all right. That's the thing, the swim we're in.
What makes it to the ocean? And what comes back?
God, the crying prospector,
found in my river
gold, silt and whiskey.
This was she, who floats here still,
face down, and bobbing