I decide I must visit the salmon. The drive is beautiful as fog staffs in layers, and the wet trees sing of clouds, rain, and sun. I am too early for the rangers, so I walk far in looking for my friends, but I don't see them. I do see how the rocks and light look like salmon, and I enjoy my seach. I see the fallen trees, and how, though fallen, they provide life. I sit by the stream and feel so clearly that we never die, just transform. As I depart, the ranger informs me there are only a couple of salmon this year. I am okay with that. I'm a little depleted myself, so I accept that though the stream is flowing beautifully, there are less salmon breeding in it this year. As I contemplate life and death, I remember a poem I wrote after my mother died. At My Death See the monkey bars standing, that once I crossed, swinging, hand over hand, in Joy - Waves when they move, don’t take the water with them - Neither will I -
