Either side of the Sierras, unpeopled shores of great lakes
when someone had to hold his breath, swim to the bottom
mud and bring the fine and putrefying ooze up to shape
humans. Helldiver or turtle, not far from scientific truth.
Nothing in a myth is exact, nor among the grasses
where Blue Jay plants oak trees randomly. The First
Ones lived with changing luck, knew the language
of the animals, took what they needed and wasted nothing
but time. The moon came and went. A marvel rising
within the oak limbs, within the flesh! celebrated
by everyone. Here the women came to watch her
form asleep, breathing atop the mountains, a golden
pendant rising from her breast. A sure revisiting,
the animals still hold their breaths, gather and await
new songs and stories of the hundred and fifty years
they’ve been away, wandering, wondering, why.
drycrikjournal 