Tying up at Goose Island, she dove in, angled
down and over the mossy shelf of
granite and fry to the dropoff. She swam
with mackinaw into greener and greener
shade, and the belly spots of dolly varden
drew her down, pink coals. When she reached bottom
she could hear the glacier
still grinding south. Moraine fell all
around her onto the deepest
char and bull trout, onto the lost
reel and just flickering spoon, aspen leaf, can,
onto the belt of the murder victim,
aluminum slide. It rained and rained more stone
inside that icy ghost, and she lay down
hearing fire under silt, saw then her hands
work magic with the dark: bringing salmon
to birth from a fingertip, scything
the choker weeds, turning rubble into
food. Far above, the boat she came in
slipped from its knot around a ponderosa. Drifting
for two days, it broke up at last on the state beach.
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