I see the shadows cast by the canyon walls as the current pulls my sister away from me. 

I see the women of my family leaning back towards the water, chirping in alarm every time a

wave brushes their back. My mother, not even turning her head, calls out to tell us to stay in sight. 

I see my grandfather, standing with his poles cast out, suddenly yell for us.

There is a creek that runs through the sagebrush-covered hills to the river. 

I see him with his face turned down towards the rocky bottom. I see him pointing. 

I see the spotted back of a mother in the water, her tail working the stream. 

Grandpa tells us, how she was born here; how she joined the yearly wave of immigrants farther

west as a young girl; how she came of age, somewhere else, in the saltwater; how she can smell

home, turns her face toward it; how she makes it past orcas, dams, otters, waterfalls, black bears,

men in their boats; how she did it anyway, in spite of, here with us standing watch. 

I see her roe, buried among the rocks. 

I see her, one last time. She will not leave here again. 

I see her daughters, learning home, and the way back. ​​