My memories move like salmon in the river— sometimes a flash, of silver muscle turning against the current. Mostly they stay hidden, under the churn, in the deep green places I can’t see. Now and then something surfaces — a punch in my gut in third grade a long hallway where the dark owned me, or sailing at night — no moon — with only the sound of the waves on the hull, I stand by the riverbank casting — not to catch, but to watch what chooses to rise. Once, wading the Rogue, I came to a bend where the river turned back on itself. There in the spiral of current a great salmon turned on his side, his body ragged, his tail slapping the water — slowly but loudly — one vacant eye toward the sky, Now, nearing my own slow turn, I think of that fish — the way he rested, spent, and yet still part of the water that carried him. And I give thanks — not for what I’ve caught, but for what swam past without needing to be named.