October 27, 2014
A slice of time incised from ranch
routines, an Indian poet-in-residence
for a week, Jack Kerouac on the wind
escaping Montana’s sub-zero to write
about dreams. He thinks in Crow,
undulating hands stroke the grace
between them, never touching speak,
pleasant sounds of rushing water gush
from his lips I almost understand.
I envy this bear of a man
who brings brightly painted ponies
and the Little Big Horn with him,
the feathered glory of reenactments
and contact with the old chiefs
that breathe past and present here
upon my skin. What a way to go out
to become one with time, turn the soul
loose and gather ‘round the fire
of mountain men, all the old cowboys
and pioneers, all the natives done with
trying to make a living on this ground.
for Henry Real Bird
drycrikjournal 
John, I can almost see him from your poem and I know where he’s from, not far from where we got in Wyoming each summer. Lovely.
janet
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Good one, John. An unforgettable character and a living window to the past.
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Hey Hank–we could use some help too!
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What a great tribute. To a man, a people, an ideal. To all that shun concrete.
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a beautiful tribute
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Brilliant poem John.
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John, your photo inspired me, and the words just flowed. When I read it back it sounds a bit awkward in places, but I like it. Any suggestions on fixing it so not so awkward? You might say it is a tribute to you and your environment. Maybe I could send it to you and see what you think?
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