filling the sky like snow. The thunder of their wings
drowns the hum of the pumping station. Suddenly the piers
are hidden by giant cattails waving
above my head.
I am not me. I am someone who walks dry-shod
across the Willamette on the shining backs
of salmon coming upriver to spawn. Who falls asleep
every night to the cackling of sentinel geese. Who never stood
alone on the shores of Swan Island, waiting, hoping
straining her eyes to see overhead
a single cormorant.