Wilderness
The meadow bends beneath the ghosts of bison feet
and wettens with their breath
hushed a hundred years ago.
A wild cat screams
like a frightened child past unseen trees.
Perhaps it will not be too long
before the particle of moon arrives.
Embers of flames have dulled to dust.
Little comfort there.
Human flesh and threads
and loosely tethered nerves
are little match for steep intemperate night.
A song hung about my mouth all day
but now has stuck in my throat
like a dead tree in the spring river
and the prayer flitting about my mind
finds little hope on which to light.
Coyote cries.
I must find friendship
in such a lonely gesture.
I am a gazer of stars with no direction
and nowhere I must go except within:
among the beasts and heroes of darkness
the stories and a million lights.
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