In winter when we cannot find water
warm enough in which to swim,
we become salmon, welcoming the cold,

entering a state of torpor, as many
animals do, slowing metabolism,
schooling together in deep water

pockets a few degrees warmer
than the surface, eating less,
though we stir the tiny burrows

on the sticky bottom for occasional
grubs, tucked into a soft blanket
of river sediment shrouding us

as we rest, surfacing now and then,
to breathe the mystical, filtered light
of starshine, of blessed moonshine,

to feel tiny drops falling from the sky.