A month ago, I stood among salmon.
Tonight, Chinook are digging redds in more than twenty of our coastal rivers. They are not alone. The coho, chum, steelhead, and cutthroats will each find their own river-places, digging nests to shelter hope.
A few months from now, whatever young salmon survived the winter floods will be hatching, wanting only shelter and food to sustain them yet another hour.
I will be tending to my life – while the salmon tend to theirs.
We spend too little time, I think, reflecting on the salmon’s gifts.
Too little time drumming in the longhouse.