|
Weir By Ken
Shiovitz Within the weir of woven willow branches, Frantic salmon boil beneath frothing waters, Like live-trapped raccoon gnashing at steel mesh, Wildly probing lattice seams, but completely wired in. Long ago, weird-looking fish with fleshy-lobed fins, Struggled from diminished streams onto flats of mud, Working stiff legged, like elongated circus stilt walkers, Budding lobes bagged off where esophagus swallowed air. Now we are people, sucking lungs full of oxygen, Clawing at networks of withering rainforests, Like inmates behind clammy walls of iron and rock, Scratching with fingernails to wear at grains of mortar. We cook with wares of pottery and Pyrex glass, Hoping to extend survival beyond pre-ordained limits, Like lucky salmon, tail-flung above fallen tree limbs, To add the smallest increment to life, but oh so weary. |
