In this shallow creek

    they flop and writhe forward as the dead

    float back toward them. Oh， I know

    what I should say： fierce burning in the body

    as her eggs burst free， milky cloud

    of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand

    on the bridge with my camera，

    frame the white froth of rapids where one

    arcs up for an instant in its final grace.

    But I have to go down among

    the rocks the glacier left

    and squat at the edge of the water

    where a stinking pile of them lies，

    where one crow balances and sinks

    its beak into a gelid eye.

    I have to study the small holes

    gouged into their skin， their useless gills，

    their gowns of black flies. I can't

    make them sing. I want to，

    but all they do is open

    their mouths a little wider

    so the water pours in

    until I feel like I'm drowning.

    On the bridge the tour bus waits

    and someone waves， and calls down

    It's time， and the current keeps lifting

    dirt from the bottom to cover the eggs.