Diary 1778
Answer to Prayers
Someplace;
where I am
it is February
I think it may not matter after today,
no it does matter
hope lies eternal some say,
the day is a blue cold…
ground frozen since
since last October,
My buffalo chip fire, just embers
here now as I
sit behind a low rise and watch…
snow awaits in a building storm
the rise was shelter early
not any more…
sometimes it’s better
not to think…
I suppose,
just freezing is a
poor way to die,
some say its an ok way..
don’t think I
zactly believe them.
sun won’t rise much above horizon
before the clouds
eat em-
behind my snow blind eyes
in darkness,
seeing a twinkling
wink along the thin delineation
at the cloud-horizon
just in the moment;
then it slid away,
Quiet is this land…
this wilderness where little
lives or grows or can flourish
here in this cold
colorless country...
abandon now
till spring,
the sun just passed the horizon,
waving warm orange arms
good day,
good by,
turning to my
dyeing embers I
warm snow water,
heat buffalo jerky
breakfast,
last of the
hard tack done
two days ago
decisions
in my frozen
awakening,
the snow began in earnest,
with the wind in my face
a
poor situation.
along the distant rise
along the direction
of the wind blowing in,
movement catches in the shadow
glimpsing against
my failing eyes,
I strain
to look, listening
hearing sounds of frozen
hooves upon the frozen earth
I hear, I now believe in
survival… Only still
out of sight, they are unknown
a cold reality
is fear gripping
me numb,
the heat of death
or damnation
calling churns my blood,
direct ahead
three wild range horses
moving within the wind,
coming; chasing the wind
already in my face…
wild as the land they roam
unattended
as nature assigned,
two healthy out of three.
close in they ran
I named one Survival,
one Necessity,
the third remains unnamed,
three jumping over the rise
to hanging a fraction
above my head
suspended
by my memory,
I watched as raptors fly above
the three and me,
to feed saprophytic
in the wake
of horses gallop,
I made the decision.
in shorter time
that it takes to
tell, I had one horse down,
a strong bold stroke
of Bowie knife
he suffered only one whinny.
one knife one gun
one frontiersman, no
food, no shelter
dying in the cold
salvation sent
wild horses
my prayer
of thanks
was said,
before;
I renamed him Shelter,
so to warm my self
inside his warm dead lifeless
shell, the horse a horse
I now call blessing
then pray his sacrifice,
will not be lost for nothing.
a. j. anon / November 2008