Thursday, September 25, 2014

Rushing By Ray A Young Bear

Yellow November
comes swaying,
I feel the hooded man
drawing move on my cousin's
Black pellets drop
to the floor
their ears full with
his lungs is the rush
of his bundkled-up
Bits of bread
pie and cake are placed
in a dish.
I heard that in the night
a deer whistled out his name
from a cornfield and gave
him its antlers.
spreading his thoughts
through the dark.
Years later,
as i warmed the shadow
inside my jacket over the stove,
my mother found a spring
and she brought the first
taste to everyone in a tin
silver cup, passing it
drinking her words.
In some mronings,
as icy as it was,
I washed my face in it
sometimes thinking
of the hooded man and the fox.
the rushing sounds of a river
under our house.