A March of Ages
Temporal otters of Hylebos Creek.
Father came to us on a mission,
ice-cream scooping with the truck bed,
to witness what being up the creek is like.
I tiptoed scissor fingers over
their slicked-back manes,
not cutting- venturing a floe bridge
of play and birth-rites to a time
before evangelical electricity
imitated stars as an earthy following
of the Mother Lantern that forever cyclicly
is snuffed by the robed lamp-legion
armed with golden staffs tipped
by voiceless bells, a tintinnabulation
of dark ringing out, as stoppable as
a dam simply out of time.
My people crossed the Great Basin
and thought stops there in the great big
openness that seemed to confer,
without interference, the sky as Being
but quickly in the smirk of summer's end
megaphones shouted ten-fold smite
of spun matchsticks: the flattened fled
away, away to lands of the huddled giants.
Great Grandfather pickaxed strikes of darkness,
a preceder ascending to light worship,
and to a lungful of coal.
Great Grandmother was never done in a day
that collapsed fast in the rain shadow,
she swung that draw bar down and lit the wick.
Speedy and swift, for the mountains
whipped the sun before wide-open towns ever did.
The giants massed, washed each other's hair,
preened, and shed the rivulets of strands
we built our thatches with, the torsos were
our boxes, and when the weeping would soften
them, their roots came undone with vengeance,
and so the men did what they could
with sons and cruised, scaled the legs
waving a many teethed sword. Father quit
the day of a Fir with the loose chain and a blow,
glancing him to the future, to his brother’s memorial
where he again thanked a son of the hill people.
For our existence of trail, trial, and luck. The hill people
are near a swear word, a vernacular snub,
reclusive and wild, but others do not know, how
the breasts of mountains ran milk down our throats
on the inside and snowed fat on the outside,
or that giants shake about us in grasping messages
of leaves, skittering and soft. They were canaries,
the Greens and McBrides, following their destiny
that is the deaf child tiptoeing
across the copse scalps leaving
behind impressions nothing like sheep.
Written by yelluw_always
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