Sockeye Sighting at Shinglemill Creek, Vashon Island
Marcie Sims
As we walked along the creek, our dog spotted you first, alerting us to your presence.
In barely two inches of water, in the clear but rapidly moving shallow creek, there you were.
Hooked-nosed and crimson in your old age, returning by instinct for this final run,
half of your body out of the shallow water, pushed forward by pure strength and will,
your body pulsing, tail beating in a fanned push, push, pushing, moving slowly up, up, up.
We stood and watched you from a respectful distance, amazed by your struggle and drive,
the beauty of your late-life red and silver, brightening the dull, beige pebbles and clear water.
The journey up looked long and impossible, and you still had so far to go, but you pushed on.
Your patience and determination outlasted our own, our attention span ruined by civilization and ease.
We left you as you were still on your way to that ancient, collective-memory spawning place.
We have faith, though, that you eventually made it to those mating grounds of generations of sockeye,
that the spot you chose, the gravel you smoothed, were perfect, and she laid her eggs there.
Then you, in your final act of instinct and survival, spawned life, before letting go, your struggle ended.
August 2022
