Salmon Run

It’s evergreen Alaska, glacier snow.

‘Not long to go’, the trees reply

to the bear’s stomach rumble, grumble

the rain from molecular skies.

A rumour ripples between the soot mud,

Ears to the ground, the tree roots tingle

pressing in, curdling silt

between their stiff fingers. Frost quivers

as the water poses its question.

Ripple, rush, green and blue and red,

yes YES.

The water is alive.

Electrons thrash, it flows,

with white teeth thirsty for copper or iron,

and black roots twitching synchronised.

The water writhes red in a procession of living.

We are made up of such chemicals,

leeched, diluted, aquae vitae.

The electric strings harmonise on axons,

melody of salt and soil and blood.

I wonder if they know they’re dying?

Is it like iron sands to a magnet— a compass twinge,

or an electric pulse of the heart?

Is it like coming home?

Maybe it’s a prayer, or written in the stars.

Hallowed be their scales on the shore.

May you drown our mouths in your blood,

the twinkling eye of Ursa Minor winks.

Deliver us from starvation.

Deliver us the sea and the salt and the sand.

Deliver us the eyes and the eggs and the flesh in our veins.

And when the trees finally take the last drink of their bodies

does the ocean taste like home?