Some invisible scents send a thread downstream to river to ocean then double back upriver and upstream to stitch together fat, laden dreams for spawning salmon as they drop all their jewels in gravel, then die. The long, olfactory tug from their nursery- stream pulled them home then out of themselves, the way fugitive scents drew two moths along an aerial line a quarter-mile apart from each other, wobbling in the updrafts along a cliff’s edge, the cliff unraveling as I followed.
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