Wind visions are honest.
Eagles clearly soar
to craggy peaks
of the mind.
The mind is full
of sunprayer
and childlaughter.
The Mountain dream
about pine brothers and friends,
the mystic realm of boulders
which shelter
rabbits, squirrels, wrens.
They believe in the power.
They also believe
in quick eagle d**h.
The eagle loops
into the wind power.
He can see a million miles
and more because of it.
All believe things
of origin and solitude.
But what has happened
(I hear strange news from Wyoming
of thallium sulphate. Ranchers
bearing arms in helicopters.)
to these visions?
I hear foreign tremors.
Breath comes thin and shredded.
I hear the scabs of strange d**hs
falling off.
Snake hurries through the gra**.
Coyote is befuddled by his own tricks.
And Bear whimpers pain into the wind.
Poisonous fumes cross our sacred paths.
The wind is still.
O Blue Sky, O Mountain, O Spirit, O
what has stopped?
Eagles tumble dumbly into shadows
that swallow them with dull thuds.
The sage can't breathe.
Jackrabbit is lonely and alone
with eagle gone.
It is painful, aiiee, without visions
to soothe dry whimpers
or repair the flight of eagle, our own brother.