A silhouette, coiled and buzzing
between the hand I held and the roaring
river as my babysitter screamed,
when we first met on the Tule.
And since so many times I lost count
by seventeen, your rattles in a bowl
little bugs turned to dust. Yet
you knew how to spy on dreams,
face-to-face, long after. You have
the hay barn and the loading chute,
count our bales and cattle weighing
good and bad boiled down to numbers
before your annual report to Tihpiknit
still living in the bottom of a rock pile.
Please give the Underworld our best
and think about an alliance if you can
overlook my ignorance. I’ll chant
and sing, I’ll even try to dance.
drycrikjournal 