Big Salmon Lake fallen so far, like a shooting star

His query, asked so perfectly with the tilt of his head, the glint in his eye, was met with a heavy snort. It had been a while since she had fished in these types of waters, but surely not too long—the compact woman drifts forward, keeping her distance, and does not hang over the water so as to alert the fish of her presence. For minutes, she simply stares. Her eyes are concentrated, but it is clear she is in the present moment, ears perked and trained to hear movement from him.

She is a statue, and it does not look like she can be moved; her stillness is challenged only by the rocks around them, and even they shift as the water pressures it. When it seems as though she might never move, she lurches forward, snapping her jaws in the water and blowing roughly through her nose.

And when she turns, she is victorious but not smiling. Can I fish. Her mother had trained her to fish in every source of water. Had sent her off to find an ocean to perfect the craft. When one was unchallenged by waves, fishing seemed quite simple. But it never really was. She drifts to the side, places it down, and begins to rip at the fish slowly. It is not her favorite meal, but it sates her appetite; that is enough.