Born in the glitch of wasted lakes
Where parents dug a fresh water hole.
Most die in this phase as infrugile spawn.
Reaching a fixed length
Pink flesh makes them swim
To open oceans as predators
Of shells and fortune.
50 miles a day minimum
Movement with or against the stream,
They progress with or without perception of surrounders.
Only one goal, to circle life,
Seems to force their tiny brains
And artistic bodies. Noone understands how they percept magnetic fields.
To leave again the salty beauty
Of freedom and directing their muscles to where
They can jump over childish obstacles.
Sex of a Salmon is unimportant,
Together they don’t fear
The mouth of the bear they voted against.
And in a huge orgy of not touching each other
They give life to fishy descendants
To rewind in extra time.
Living means dying.
True nature holds contact
With forces of life within the contract.
Genes are an eternal program.