Pine embellished by Cassiopeia arched over prone morning.  Meadowlark laughed, cougars stalked shadows, crow deputies.  Bent creek carried silt of spring, sigh of cedar.  Cold mist, feathered cloak marked him of eagle and raven.  He took part night, river’s depth in bent cedar boxes along grease trails over walls called cordillera.  Distantly ships put into several bays.  Raven gave up tricking salmon people, at Rose Spit called out first, men.  Who had invented dance now demanded war.  What speech there was was lament. Undone morning weeps bloodied.   Anger-melted gold fills insatiable mouths, shames what night cannot hide.  No more hand set to house front, no more ashlar of jasper. Night casts her spears, we have not even time to die.  Flee hands which reach from river, children ghost small starving birds.  Rejoice in crow’s carrion cruelty, Owl devour those we cannot smother in our desperate escape.
                               Look up beaten, complaining, supreme.  Reconstruction begins in this torpor, a boredom purring heart cannot abolish.  Inebriated with the impossible, go past mission outpost’s Gide and a Kempis to the lineage house of men.  Hegel whispers I never did believe.  Attar extend gender-inflected zero.  In the wrong season glisten with sugary neoprene. Belong to at least two countries, Land of Goshen sours.  Break into Quechua, haunt cruel Saturdays, look for amigo.  Wheat field marries into lion’s eye.  Ayacucho fanfares enclose the wind.  White-breasted, black-winged, displace requiem.  Recover lost chives, cottonwood’s inerrant perfume, shooting stars on the other side of the river. When mountain burns, Eyes-Are-In-Festival yields turquoise.  Let him palmer drink iris dry.  Sky falls, camas blooms, then this morning white tail flicker in low aspen, chickadee dee dee dee, chickadee dee dee dee.