"Kingfisher."
Old, crazy shaman priest who shakes stones in his head,
watches me from a snag, all the little fish
are his for this half mile salmon smolts like coins
or wampum going past.
Swearing threats from trees he gives me thief, thief,
my hands cannot deceive him.
He wants the back of my head but I am the guest
of his father, the river.
Whatever I take is my own, when it is dark, I will go home
and he will fly into his hole to grunt, to rattle,
making a spell.