The River

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The River

In spring
over the jetty
the bright fish
brawl the tide’s
muscular wave
avoiding
adroitly
the current’s undertow,
the pelican’s pouch,
the sea lion’s jaws,
to spawn
new life.
I don’t know
if they know
their destinies.
I don’t know
if they know
their final fate.
Up the river
the pools and the dams
give a brief respite.
Up the river
the osprey cries out.

Up the river
the osprey cries out.
The fish know
this is the osprey’s river,
this is river of death,
this is the river of suffering
where you swim and swim,
where you live by tides of the moon,
where you end on the beds of gravel
and they cannot feel your flesh
where life has no meaning  
and is neither just nor merciful.

Where life has no meaning,
and is neither just nor merciful,
it begins
to decay,
it begins
to shed like the casing
of a snake.
At the gash of the gills
the old skin rots.
The fish shudders
but does not falter.
She rolls over.
She releases her red eggs
like bubbles.