After eggs in themorning
I would run down
To the old wooden town pier
That jutted outinto the bay.
I would look out toward the horizon.
I would look outfor the boats
Their wings spread wide
Trailing nets into the calm waters
Of Prudhoe Bay.
In an hour they would be in,
Unloading their catch
Onto the dock.
The salmon would still be
Flopping around in theholds
Fresh from the cool depths below.
Waiting for the boats to comein,
I would climb down
On the rocks below the pier.
As the tiderushed in
The clear Alaskan water would
Fill the crevices
Between theboulders.
The bright pink anemones
That clung to the dark rocks
Would relish the flow
Of nutrients into their pools.
Sometimeswhen I looked out
Across the sparkling blue waters
Of Prudhoe Bay,
Iwould see big black fins
A pod of orcas
Breaking the water'ssurface.
That was 50 years ago.
Today when my grandson
Walksout to the town pier
And looks out toward the horizon,
He can see noboats
With wings outstretched.
For there are no boats.
He cannothelp unload
The catch at the dock
For there is no catch.
Thesalmon that he sees
Are not the fresh ones
Flopping around in the fishholds,
But instead, the ones that float
Belly up toward the shore
Inthe thick, black primordial ooze
Of the bay.
My grandson cannot evenclimb
On the rocks below the pier
For they are slick,
Slick withcrude oil.
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