This
Where the Red tail and Kite feed well
And the Owl’s cough is intricate and varied
We step around it quietly           still seeing
        Still hearing the field mice scurry within       ghost.

Grasses burn ripe in this moon
Locusts are on the grain

Antlers lock somewhere in the night close by
Causing a great ruckus on the earth
The stronger of the two pushed the other
Across the scrub brush to the base of Fist Mountain
                  Which took along time         seemingly
 

We grow still inside; quiet listening and find peace in the disorder-
The rattling and grind the push and shove. They leave their tracks for those
Who honor such battles

A small stone shows itself there in the dusty furrows, inside it a bear, thunder
We pause, listening again; perhaps we keep it or let it go to another
Who may need it more

We ourselves are only the smallest green in malachite
Our faces fading on the bark and rocks of deep orange lichen
Marrow of sustenance, cool pine needles beneath bare feet 
See us in the feather, strike of the flame
             The pine seed winged          strange butterflies

Cupped hands
We are river
Reaching salt
Buffalo against
Alien wire- Goodbye.

We are the Black Salmon sucking        we defy
Often dying close to each other

Pit our breastbone to the moons
Lightening has struck water and rock; The Great Wind has swept it
                                                                                                               We are ready

~ May 31, 2006 Inebriated Psalms

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