Susan Shaw Sailer
Forty years ago I camped on Quinault land,
in the morning woke to see ponies 10 feet away
trotting up the beach, no bridles, no saddles.
Fog rolled in, Pacific waves broke 50 feet away,
the Quinaults' village out of sight. On NPR I heard
the tribe will have to move to higher ground.
The Pacific breaches their seawall, laps at backyards,
threatens homes for 760 tribal members. Cooled
by an Olympic glacier, for eons the Quinault River
gave good salmon runs. Five years ago the glacier
melted. River too warm, the catch half of 20 years ago,
the river so low a fisherman stubbed his toe
on a mastodon jaw submerged since the last ice age.