And finally, out of the series, I'd
like to read a poem, called "The Last Salmon."
When the last salmon come home, like Chief Joseph's
beaten tribe, gulls will arrive from the dump
as honor must be accorded and the sunshine
will be dignified that we love no dead but our own.
From reserved seats on the dyke, we will watch them leaping,
see their darkening flanks like old tires in the water.
The river will be at low flow as decreed by the army engineers.
Here at the rapids, the high school band
will cheer, playing the passage of great fish through the air.