The Fish Counter at Bonneville
Downstream they have killed the river
and built a dam; by that power they
wire to here a light;
a turbine strides high poles
to spit its flame
at this flume going down.
A spot glows white where an old man
looks on at the ghosts of the game
in the flickering twilight--
deep dumb shapes that glide.
So many Chinook souls,
so many Siverside.
William Stafford
Posted over on William Stafford Archives
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