In a mountain stream so cold and clear it hits like a hammer,
a cutthroat trout holds steady in the current.
She was born in this water 
in a bed of gravel no wider than a sheet of plywood.
As a finger-length fry, she drifted downstream.
Years later, when snowmelt swells the river,
she turns back.
Upstream.
Cutthroat trout imprint on the water where they hatch.

When it’s time to spawn,
they return to nearly the same stretch of gravel where their life began.
This has been happening since the ice loosened its grip on these valleys.

Since meltwater first braided through new-cut channels.
Generations drifting and returning.

Again and again.
She finds it without map or marker.

The river carries the memory.

Spend enough time in the Rockies,
and you’ll notice it that quiet current guiding you back to yourself.

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