 |
The stars are stained
in the rust-red blood
of the hunter's moon
generous death
flows over the gentle,
sloping hills bordering these peaceful plains.
I watch from the line
where the plateau begins
to ascend the sky
to the god of night and death.
I wait for the grass to stir
the dust to spread
tint the heavens a brighter black
indicating the herd needs space,
freedom.
The world is limited between sky and dirt
where the earth meets the god of death
with open hands and a solemn kiss.
We live as a tribe
as do the elk, antelope and prairie dog.
We live to track,
hunt to survive:
we search for better ways
to get the arrow home
faster before the night turns violent
and his tears of rage
wash his wicked wetness over us
over me.
I envy the deer
who leaps from point to point
in the joy only of
uninhibited movement,
while I limp, drag-shuffle
my dead leg with its minute throbs
of life, pain
far apart, nearly unfelt
over the straight terrain
of these plains.
I am cherished here
for my sharp, hawk-swift eyes,
only in a grudging way:
to be less than perfect
is not, a sin, not a fault
but a sign of the god of light:
you are his
not to be left alone, abandoned
during the high snows
and season of fast rivers;
respect is partially given
for he lives only half the day,
so this makes my life
small but brilliant too.
The grass falls and rises
like air caught in my lungs
I hold my tongue
watching the buffalo trot west
hating their ability
to flow
like undamned water,
wishing someday
when I'm free from my leg
to guide like the eagle
above the living green land.
|
