Salmon

Pine trees stretch endlessly

across the Alaskan scenery.

Only surging rivers

cut through the thick green.

The crystal water

rushes over the men’s boots.

Their hands are red and fingers numb

from the work.

Some stand on the river’s banks,

others wade further into the water,

some even brave the river’s current.

They are the Hunter-Gatherers of our time.

They endure the early mornings,

the cold of the river, the hours spent,

to bring home the day’s catch.

Baskets filled to the brim with gray fish,

that wriggle to be free.

Their scales, the color of the sky,

moments before a rainstorm.

Their mouths open and close in silent agony,

their slick bellies glisten.