For Deborah Meltvedt

On a Friday walk-and-talk
by the river, Deb spots him
first—the dog-like head

periscoping out of royal blue.
We’ve seen him before here,
this sea lion who’s apparently

vacationing far from the sea—
or perhaps he’s decided to relocate,
given the ample supply of…

Has he got a fish? I wonder aloud

as the big guy’s back curves
like a new tire on the surface
for a moment, followed by

a whopper set of thrashing,
tail-flipping, water-churning,
gymnastic moves.

I think so, Deb says.

Riveted, we watch nature in
action, wait for glimpses
of silver glinting in morning

sun, likely a salmon trying
to make its way upstream
caught in the jaws of a hungry

predator. We, who would
typically root for the underdog,
cheer on the mammal working

to subdue and swallow breakfast—
though he is the interloper and
salmon need to spawn upstream.

But what do we two soft-skinned
creatures know about catching
our own food? We’ve never

had to kill another to eat it,
never had to cultivate
the strength, to summon

the determination, assume
a posture of predator,
though our species creates

them in numbers we don’t
want to imagine right now.
Which is perhaps one

reason why we stand
in awe as the dark head in
the river tips back and, little

by little, gulps his catch
until the silvery prey
disappears.