Dreaming in the Bison's Meadow

The sky is falling through the stars

above these hills, this meadow,

and there are places where night leaves

footprints on the prairie grass,

scuffing off the dewdust with drizzles

of a deeper dark.  We have six miles

in the going and the coming back

and will group to make ourselves look bigger

in the instance of our introduction

to some big cat or another that thinks

she owns the places of the day,

the places of the woods.  They say

to keep eye contact with a cougar, wave

sticks, don't run.  We ask the rangers

what should be done

with phantoms,

the ones who shake the stars

in passing, quiver stretches of long grasses

just beyond our tent flaps.  Old soldiers, they--

one carrying his right foot

like a baby in his arms, the other

holding forth his liver like a knight

proffers his sword to an honored liege. 

Why do I dream us to this place, Sister? 

Is it here that we will make our stand,

wounded wind in our faces? Or will we

tat the fallen sky into holier tomorrows,

craft blankets for our backs?  There!

of sky than you!   If only we believed in lionese.

If only we believed.

[written after reading Philip Levine's Dreaming in Swedish fromn Simple Truths]