Salmon Spawn

by John Struloeff

The stench is overwhelming,
death wafting from the entire stream valley,
mouth to the high lakes.
Days before, children huddled
on Plympton Creek bridge, shrieked
at the salmon that shot from
the swirling spring rains, pewter bullets
ricocheting off rocks, off logs, exploding
rigid, glistening slabs of aroused meat.
Now the battlefield of desire is quiet.
No one gathers to coo the furious, veering fish.
The dead all have pale tatters of flesh tugged
by the cold streaming waters. Motes break off,
tumble in the current, settle between stones
or catch in the undulating silk hair of algae.