Salmon run

The air was a gentle antidote, the people in the street harmless fish

passing in a stream. I evaporated.

I let myself be carried by invisible currents to the India Street pier. Stepping out onto the planks

I crossed a threshold into the realm of the river. The atmosphere was still, serene,

but set apart. Here is nature’s refusal:

a grey zone

between the skinny island of towers and Brooklyn’s industrial fringe.

Despite the aggressive human activity on the East River, it asserted its otherness.

The tangy seaweed smell that penetrates even this polluted body of water transported me

to a freer place.


I return to the shore and sit on a bench in the soft evening light. The balmy

thick of the air makes everything

one element. I too am a fish, and it doesn’t really matter what is on my mind, because I move

with the stream, lack self-consciousness and reflection.

I dart and laze. Am I at home?


I am in moments,

dipping into the chance to be peaceful, as one.

I have been granted permission to stay. Or go.


Go, fish, go! Go fish! Fish for life in this wilderness of opportunity.


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