There is a bear who swallows salmon whole. Swallows their dreams so completely, all the bends left before the gravelly shores of their ancestors nearly catch in the bear’s throat. Swallows their memories and fears—the bear gorging with oceans and rapids leapt in brilliant flashes of red. And the salmon keep swimming. As if they are still alive. As if their run could compel the stomach upstream. As if, on this warm autumn afternoon, the bear wouldn’t disappear into what remains of the old growth and doze off on a bed of ferns at the base of a moss-grown spruce.
