In My Tradition
In my tradition we don’t tell
coyote stories,
James said in Cañoncito—
until the first hard frost.
I marveled as the three hard syllables
fell like three
raven feathers, no, like kernels
from a raven’s open beak
Next morning blue corn atole, crisp
ice on the windshield when I took
the sleeping bag out
to the car
A pinch of corn pollen
rubbed on the hands for the drive north
I came through Blackhawk
canyon blasted into a furious gorge
dynamite & heavy
equipment Clear Creek’s seen it all
a thousand yards casino glass & cement
bigger than Mesa Verde
crow crow crow
rip up a wild place for thrills crow crow
How different is walking?
what’s it to you gambler dog-face?
If your heart don’t know
that walking is different than gambling
no one can tell you
crow crow
(Poems from The Facts at Dog Tank Spring, Dos Madres Press: Loveland, Ohio, 2020)
