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Poem

Turtle is ancient, he speaks now and always
for the indigenous who have lost their voices.

By day, Turtle's form embellishes,
he sits outside of a Chinese restaurant
by the side of an ornamental pond.

The traffic creates a dusty coat on his
stone shell, yet his eyes are wide open,
they capture past and future
as the present cascades along.

He remembers the iron horse
how it ran in one line this way then back,
now all things go where they may
even past this forecourt
in front of the restaurant.

The night lands here late,
before three in the morn,
Turtle changes form,
only to reappear in a saloon
there he imbibes an allotment
of whisky from the white traders.

He spins ice in his glass
Turtle does not smile.
he hears the yipping coyote
as it tries to slip away from the coming troubles,
a storm that came and went many years ago,
and now returns as a howl
in the dreams of fretful sleepers -
for there is a new blood-storm approaching.

Turtle blesses the drunken blur
of this approaching dawn.
He returns to the ornamental pond,
sits upon its edge
to recall what will come next,
shudders
before returning to stone.

Turtle cannot hold back the daylight
or the blood that the light will bring.

This time he has no answers.

Even the painted Golden Carp on the wall
of the Chinese restaurant can sense
his sadness.

Stone tears.

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