Death looks down.
Death looks down on the salmon.
A male and a female in two pools.
One above the other.
The female turns back along the path of water to the male.
Does not touch him and returns to the place she had been.
I know what death will do.
Their bodies already are sour and ragged.
Blood has risen to the surface under the scales.
One side of his jaw is unhinged.
Death will pick them up, put them
under his coat against his skin, and belt them in there.
Will walk away up the path through the Bay trees
through the dry grass of California
to where the mountain begins.
Where a few deer almost the color of the hills
will look up until he is under the trees again
and the road ends and there is a gate.
He will climb over that with his treasure.
It will be dark by then.
But for now he does nothing.
He does not disturb the silence at all.
Nor the occasional sound of leaves of ferns touching
of grass or stream.
For now he looks down at the salmon, large, and whole.
Motionless days and nights in the cold water
lying still always facing the constant motion.