|
Squaw Island, Niagara River
July 2008
Everywhere the white man has touched the earth, it is sore.
-- anonymous Wintu woman, 19th century
From a distance the fish littering the gray asphalt riverwalk look like Canada goose droppings, just moist commas.
Resting his belly on the rusted waterside railing a fisherman reels in, sets down his bottle in a paper bag to unhook and flip one over a shoulder without looking. The sand-brown goby twists, then only mouth and gills flap in slowing motion; then no movement, and darkened to black.
“They’re from Europe or somewhere. Bad news.” He flicks his filtered butt into grass and spits, yawns at the orange of two jumpsuited prisoners fifty yards downriver, beside the sewage treatment plant, scything milkweed and scattering the handful of monarchs. He spits again and kicks a faded red plastic cup skittering past in the steady shore wind until it's through the rails and into the water: “Oops.” Then he jacks his radio because, with the water and someone gunning a Harley in the parking lot behind him, he can’t fucking hear.
END
|