|December 10th, 2000|
The Last Day
by Deanna Lee Birkholm
The mist so fine it was almost invisible.
Not leaving even pockmarks on the water . . .
Polished steel gray, fading like an oriental watercolor
thin whips in the distance.
Filmy and dreamlike.
Nearby, squawking gulls sparred
Several pair of mallards walking about,
A swirl near the mouth of the creek.
There is no distinguishing the horizon.
There are no pods of incoming fish.
A hundred dead salmon litter the beach and creek bed.
A week ago two pair of spawners
The gray darkens.
The wind changes.
The decaying fish providing nutrients
Time repeating itself.
River Bed by Dave Motes
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