The People of the Great Hills

A stealthy troop we are not, in this camp -

A minefield patch of roots and stones

That grab the toes and clutch the arches

In the chase - kids yelp as they trip

And pant a bruised chuckle as they stumble up.

The game flows on amidst tents, between trunks:

The bob and dodge heedless gallop

Tramping the rough belly of dust, pollen and

Dry ochre pine, the forest mat.

Scouts wheel beneath the canopy, sunset

Rushing amber lances that brush them like

Blessings in the creases between the rustling trees,

Housed in shadow, crouched

Pniese would be hissing laughter, quiet

Eye whites shining within their pale soot masks.

What whispers from men have these

Arcing trunks netted, some aeonic collector of dreams?

Haughty to consider all our tribes needful as sun

Or shower to nourish the growth of these hills.

In the fall of one woody pillar could

The pulpy rings return, somehow, a

Snared burble of Algonquian youth

At scamper and track, yelping as they trip…

(Wunnêtu, a fine child,

Chénock wonck cuppeeyeâumen?

When will you pass here again?)

The mesh pew of this camp-chair

Holds the nave in a tree cathedral.

I tilt back and gaze the boughed arches of

Red oak, thick hemlock and conifers, swaying

Wind-sighed from Ballard throats couched

In a chancel of bark and entwined twigs,

Leaves scribing random sky-dances, carving

An alphabet that should require the

Lost gift of a nadie to comprehend.

A caterpillar eats his ragged carpet,

Hunger-blind to its wild pendulum descent

From heaven.

Grounded, he struts his many hips away

Just past my boot.

Notes:

(from the Wampanoag)

Pniese - warrior