The run of silvers.
If, inside me, his one cell swam among millions as if it knew the way, met the ripe star falling through my thick clouded sky then plunged in headlong renouncing even the tail that allowed it to make the swim, then I will tell our new daughter or son, the one taking shape, taking over inside and out that one afternoon a run of silvers surged through Resurrection Bay, such hurry toward death! Their potent ballet--muscular dazzling leaps into the blinding sparkle of an air they can't breathe--how they hovered in blue air--angels, perhaps, messengers surely sent to nourish and teach those of us who might listen . . . They did not know where they were going, they simply found their way. We did not catch our supper that day. Glacial spray from the crashing falls chilled our faces, cleared our eyes. In never-ending daylight sea otters rocked belly up on the incoming tide, swallowing whole blue mussels stone pounded against their chests. We never had touched each other in quite such tender danger.