by Todd Davis

For more than
a decade I stole
snowmelt
from spring,
lifted pink
and red bodies
twisting
from current,
the only fish
born rightfully
to this place.
But after
the fire ran up
the mountain—
(root balls
incinerated,
a scorched
absence large
enough to crawl
inside of)—
the stream holds
only ash,
water warmed
without banked
dogwood and willow,
the leaky canoes
of fir and spruce
sunk to the bottom.
I count every fish
as it swims away
to the main river:
orphans of the lost
blue I’d hoped
to show my son
before the debt
of loving a place
broke him.