Son of the Kenai
Why do you wait,
Watching the children
Of the Lower Forty-eight?

The storm clouds hang heavy
In the afternoon sky.
If it were a clear day
Would you give it a try?

Is the thirty-two degree water
Maybe holding you back?
Or are there too many already
Fishing along the bank?

No?

Oh.

Many are fishing,
Few are catching.
The reds have not arrived.
The time is not right.

When the sockeye red
Breaches the Kenai’s surface
Because there is
No room below it
In the moving sardine can
Between the banks,
And the rapid flow
Of the run and the river
And instinct
Keep it going.

This Son of the Kenai
Will step into the fray,
Gather his catch
In under three minutes,
And go home.