Enterprise


They called him Thunder in the Mountain
he wore a hide of ponderosa pine
and in the pinch between his fingers,
about his ankles wrapped within his
hair the rivers flowed, you could have
cupped your hands beneath him, you’re on your
knees and the water spills, ricochets
drums across your eyes ‘til the mist
rises and you cannot see.

But I smell him, he’s made of ponderosa
after all, his stench has not been laundered
or spun or sprayed, it hangs from
petals laces puddles like an oil
a slick of perfume rising
within rain. I am a snake
curled in the smoothness of rock
I feel his heartbeat,
raw drum upon the earth, I don’t forget
the throb of death, the rattle of pebbles
the ginger shifting of position
on an old street bench.

That’s where I found him, he was
rooted his limbs had sprouted yet
could stretch to catch the sun,
between his teeth he’d made a home
for twenty creatures and as I
paused to pass the time of day
a raven rose from one, black
as the river, and a damsel fly
snatching life between its wings.

Shoulders broad as the Wallowas
catch even the wind, and he
brought those limbs together
bark cracked and fell about his feet
in piles of jewels and tales and times
long gone, and he cupped those
hands. We walked away in search
of entertainment, a flat street
behind us far off
a great horned owl sings.