What we saw

last summer made us weep.


The skunk cabbage told of this.


Our abnormalities, that odd number

of eyes


do not make us see any better.


Let us save ourselves, we said,

my father and I.


This year’s undertaking was planned

and implemented considering all


future climate scenarios we’ve fished with before.


But there is a clear message

on a clear day


as we fish for spring kings knowing

our winter was warmer, wetter,


and snow melt came faster and earlier.

Every morning, the snow level


on the Three Sisters, the mountain range

in view of our fishcamp,


makes my father sigh.—Expect impact,

understand magnitude.


Storm events scour stream beds,

rain flushes our homes.


At night we read charts


showing a sea-level rise,

and I dream of enough oxygen


to fill our gills with a cold water refugia,


and nearshore where we once stood

wrapped in a food web, salmon hearts


still pulse in our hands.