i.

A crane cometh around
Down by the superannuated rivulet;
No machinery by this place
Mud bank's, phantom silhouette's.

ii.

I canst sense
The Miami Indians prowling the copse;
Their regard for living was natural
As the new ager's that came after, destroyed the crop's.

iii.

Thou canst seeith the moccasin's
Slithereth down the way;
Their black scale's, telleth tale's
Of a time of freedom's day.

iv.

I goeth down to this old tributary
Whence the land was hunted by bow;
I'm respecting the land, as it shalt be
Not doing as the newbies know.

v.

As the babies groweth, and the ghost's do showeth
The narrative that's meant to be left;
I shalt keepeth the aboriginal modus operandi
And walketh with the spirit's, of this place they hath lent.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry