I've seen a salmon in the river, fighting desperately.
He flip-flops out of reach of dangers that pass his way, as he fights upstream. Will keeps him going, going, until he will reach the place where, generations and generations back, they have bred, laying their eggs among the gravel.
Hordes crawl along, single-minded and defiant of horrors. If they make it, they will triumph in the order of survival, having come such a long way to where they themselves were born.
Woe, if only the rocks be less sharp, the wolves and bears less fierce, then great numbers would choke the water, until the river but a mass of colours. Alack, the bear stands at the corner, it's paw extended.
The salmon fights, yet to no avail. The bear must eat, the chain must go on, predator and prey must kill and survive. And so the salmon finally lays limp in the hand of the bear, a small life gone.
He is a salmon, yet more.