One day in late spring, they arrive all of a sudden,
hurrying home to the high mountains from the Pacific.
Little smelt in the millions roil and wriggle their way
up our river toward the snowy Cascades.
They flicker the whole river
black-to-silver- black-to-silver-black-to-silver.
Glinting and gleaming, they swim up the Columbia
past Ilwaco, Chinook, and Skamákaway,
turn into the Cowlitz at Kelso
then come along by Castle Rock
and on up the river past us.
"The smelt are running! The smelt are running!"
The whole breathing Cowlitz passes by, a finny swim of black.
The squirming carpet stretches in all directions—
bank to bank and up and down as far as you can see.
You want to take off your shoes,
step right off the muddy bank
cross over on their small, sleek, sparkling backs,
walk out on that eager, mysterious ribbon of fish.