The small buffalo herd’s silence
We’re living on a caramel island where spider soldiers
can suddenly rise up when the music stops.
The train whistle only ruffles our sleep without really waking us.
The cottonwoods by the river, many saviors without a congregation.
The cranes flying down river will pause there and remember.
They want to stand and worship and become new trees.
Winter comes. Before dawn, I rise and make coffee.
The night winds have left a hole that thoughts go into but don’t return.
You are on the sea far away from me.
Petroglyphs of the owl mother are getting harder and harder to see.