Dead Fish.

I saw a lot of dead fish on my last trek. They were lying in the water, floating, or on the beach, or the pier. At one point I watched a guy on the pier yelling at his fishing buddy not to lose whatever it was on the line. After struggles with nets and hooks and line, they hauled a large salmon or lake trout out onto the pier. It gasped, but it was obviously exhauted from being drawn in and raised the twelve feet or so up the side of the pier. The fisherman finally removed the hook and took a picture of his exhausted prize. He said something to some passers-by about just catching for the picture that sounded like he had some concern or respect for this creature. Then he grabbed the fish and gave it a high lob out into the lake again that ended with a smacking splash.

I walked on with my recording gear. On my way back, I saw the fish, floating on his side in the water. A seagull was perched on it like it was a handy raft. He was pecking at the fish's side. At least someone got something from that fish's death other than a snapshot, I thought. I passed the fisherman once again, thinking about my own neighborhood, and my upbringing and litter. Such waste and littering still seems strange to me, even after living on both coasts and spending years in large cities, as well as rural towns. It never ceases to baffle me when someone drops their garbage on the street, or leaves the dead refuse of their hunting behind at a campground. It's as if as the number of people around increases so does the denial of community responsibility, of basic respect for other beings.