This canyon echoes rumbling rails
while ancient creek bed holds its tales,
and diving falcons practice fleet
with dancers - now all whirling birds.
As fish swim close to banks of words
sprayed ‘neath the beasts of steel, discrete,
I think of those who went before –
they traveled far to fish a store
of salmon jumping up the street.
The salmon jump, alas, no more,
And those who lived were shown the door –
the Chief, he rests his weary feet
along the Falls now owned by men
who might not care for fish or fen
(they sit inside a room to meet).
The river runs through PCBs –
polluters seem to sleep with ease.
The sun shines on with light and heat
and we keep on our meet and greet,
while birds of prey hunt on for meat:
in place of salmon … nothing’s sweet.
