Turtle Sees the Coming Storm

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.