2004, Peace and War
Who dared to hope in spring of year
that summer sun would long appear?
What dreamer dreamt sleek Chinook
would crowd his way up Inlet, Cook?
Which caster-fore boldly said
the tides would flood with fattened Red?
Where were the prophets, now self-right
who wag their tongues in hinder sight?
A year when fortune blew our way
in breeze that dwindled every day.
And failure fell more by chance
that lack of finny happenstance.
Processors plumped their cheeks with glee
as plants pushed their capacity.
Burgeoned streets with tourist trade
found our rivers rich to wade.
And do the thankful tinkle glass
around the taverns you might ask?
Do they murmur from their pew
a quiet little "Lord thank-you"?
Shall we scrape the scabbing wound
soon as the meetings have resumed?
Cut the smile, put on a frown
we're off to meet in Anger-town!
Brent Johnson, Clam Gulch
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