Salmon

Ever muscling against
the flow, my world is all liquid
hurtle and accident.

Πάντα ῥεῖ, here nothing
wears a constant face
except inconstancy.

With my every sinuous
turn, light coruscates
from my scales, but

I know my cold core is
dark, aching for the source.
So I am become a myriad

quivering runs, purity
of heart to will one thing,
seeking that moment of

fusing freedom when
there will be no stream,
no journey, no fish,

but only the pure
leap, perfect parabola,
completed in eternity.