Unfurling the red.
A gentle snap.
You ‘re at the well.

Are you awake?

Forget, let all drop, abandon shyness.
Water pours through gravel and heat waves.
From a distant swing
the call squeaks a vibrating past memory.

Are you thirsty?

The crows remain.
Follow father’s black blood line
back to grandmother.
Past the pass,
behind the Crow,
where mountain lions cross
and mushrooms flourish.

Not time to mine the black coal
or mime false black diamonds of youth.
Let sweet mists disappear the dams
and resevoirs of Old Man River.
Leave behind the glorious foothills
of Pincher Creek and Head Smashed In.

Tradition longs for past wanderings.
Pass the past,
behind the Crow,
where mountain lions crossed
and mushrooms flourished.

Yes I am awake.

Yes I am thirsty.

The delicate doe stretches
beginning her solitary twilight foraging.

:: comment :: ... this writing and the next six days will document a journey form praire to coast ... a physical map and an inner premonition ... a time shortly before the death of my father ... unexpectedly ...

12:04:38 AM     comment []   . .    Open firefly