Spillway. I like that word, it says what it means. The spillway spills away, careening crash of water next to the fish ladder.
Fish ladder. Now there’s a rude invention. But hey, some cars have fins, right? The water blasts through the old wooden-slatted pipeline, some 10 km to its destination – a mothballed pulp mill that has no use for gushing water. But the thing is kept charged anyway, lest it collapse. So for these ten clicks there’s this stylized bit of alter-nature, water still moving through wood, but in darkness, ribbed in iron… (think of the bewildered fish that would somehow find itself in such an Orwellian current!)
Cold water moving through soaking green-dark woods – this is winter here – and fall and spring, too, to be honest. The coldness, the movement, and the greens shift and grumble from week to week, pacific winds make jokes of umbrellas. It will be a long climb ’til summer. Cover up, walk the dog and tuck in for Pacific winter.