Given a mass die-off of menhaden
Given the stench all spring
Given flies circling the houses
Given windows kept closed
Given a bridge over a tributary. You adjust to the smell, lose track of time
Given a great blue heron appearing from the phragmites, wading toward you across the mudflats
Given the thin white fish in its mouth
Given a siege of baby herons swimming into view
Given their neon-green eyes, their frantic mouths
Given two men downstream, their remote-controlled drone circling the bridge where you are standing
Given you don’t know whether to stay or go. The herons. The drone. The stench
Given the dead menhaden decomposing within weeks or months
Given their bodies returning to the nutrient cycle—the mudflats abundant with them, spawning
marsh elder, glasswort, cordgrass
Given the grass provides shelter for the birds
Given the drone above you, the highway behind you, the stench around you: you are still seeking
shelter—
