How many times has Jean Pierre

hooked and brought to the surface

a glimpse of the divine

in her form as a Fish.

Shouting, “Nowma Come Quick”

and me running upstream on old legs

to witness the miracle,

of a Rainbow or a Brown

alive and wise in the ways of water.

But today after the spill

their influence in our lives

is a hollow echo.

Their brightness, their intelligence,

and the dreams we share

are missing.

The river is devoid of fish,

all dead from the gasoline in the water.

A tanker took a full load too fast on a curve

and now I stand with Jean Pierre

and feel a loss that is planetary.

Can we breath

if the fish can’t…

as they leapt toward land

anything to escape the poison.

Sweet cousins of the water,

we miss you with all our hearts.

I’m so sorry.