The ghosts of rain clouds hide between the mountains

                clinging to changing leaves as hints of gold and bronze

       break up the dominant evergreen trees.

                        In the fog-covered valley, a drum holds a steady

                       beat accompanied by the whines of a fiddle.

People gather by the river long before sunrise

     medicating the first bitter morning of the season

   with a steaming cup of coffee, marveling at the display below.

Salmon jump over rapids,

 breaching the water with a flick of their tail,

desperate to make it upstream. Their bodies slam

against the rocks below, crashing into the rapids. Three fish

     size up the rushing water, each laboring under the pressure

to follow the stream. One by one, they push off,

soaring into the air with a furious swish of their tail.

Then—smack—their bodies collide with the barrier of rocks,

giving into the current as their shocked bodies float down the river like autumn leaves.

By noon the river will reek of rotting fish and

damp earth as the bank's bed-weary fish

who could not resist the current. Hawks will come for them in the evening,

dark talons snatching the red bodies riddling the shore, whisking them away

to feed her awaiting young as the crowd celebrates with music and dance

  for the salmon who triumphed and those who did not overcome.