EDITOR,
Pinks
I lean over the railing of the Mashiter Bridge
Looking down to watch nature's wonder -
The pinks -
Slowly making their way
Against the current.
Ten abreast they come
With hardly space between each row,
Filling the width of the creek
Like stepping stones,
Some with whitened dorsal fin
Just as the white beard of an old man
Showing their age.
They flick their tails
Wiggle their bodies
Pushing forward
Nudging each other
Continuing their struggle
Further
Looking for the perfect place to spawn.
On the bank a young family
Watches in wonder too
A perfect nuclear family
Mom, dad, son, daughter
With dog straining at the leash
Two front paws in water
All silent
Seeing for the first time
On this sunny cloudless day
The clear water enveloping
The slow show
Of determination
Returning together
To their birthplace
To start the cycle again.
A little further down the stream
A great blue heron alights
On the stony bank
Then watches the procession
Surely thinking these are far too big for him
But also hoping to see a weak one flounder
Finished with her exhausted effort
And then surrendering.
It takes two years for this wonder
To happen again
Only on the odd years -
No one can say when or how
It started
One can only hope
It's always there
The column of pinks -
Like the charge of the light brigade
Moving surely to their deaths
Crowding together towards it
Unafraid
Relentless
To the end.
Hugh Kerr
Squamish
