Native No More

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.