She looks at her river
Worked up by hubris,
rushing with ignorant rage.
“Why must we go back?” she asks.
The fever simply says, “Because it’s always been.”
To them, her words mean danger.
So she flails at the rapids that rush to silence her,
Slips past grizzlies who feast without guilt,
And ignores her own anger
At what’s always been.
Finally, she buries her eggs in the gravel
With hope that her smolt yet unborn
Will break from tradition,
Think for themselves,