Down the old Indian trail where the thick ivy grows
where tree-shade nymphs dance o'er the young foxes' holes
where groundhogs and rabbits forage with wary eye
where my vehicle chases deer from the downy gravel-road side
where autumn leaves give color to the nuke plants beyond
the wide river that meanders past the refinery dock pylons...
I come to the fields where my electronics shacks stand
which monitor the air for industrial pollutants and gas
and I hear the ground whisper in lost Algonquin tongues,
the rustle of soft moccasins, painted Mohawk haircuts
speaking to young trees, new grasses, old rocks
that all reply back in the Great Spirit's tongue…
Beneath my heavy boots their vanished history
of arrowheads, of broken pottery, of squaws, of fleeting feet
of bare-chested warriors still whooping their cries
to instill fear in all life, whether it swims, runs, or flies
who once built their wild world around honor and love
who still sing their songs from below, from above.
a complimentary piece to in falkirk field by aychellus
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