In the tracks of Nokomis

In the tracks of Nokomis

March is the yester-eve of the year
when trees sing
and clocks strain forward inexplicably...

The near-wolf lopes ahead along a muddy track
water-sky ladling her prints.
A stammering rabbit flushes
into pounding flight
dodging across the sodden turf.

I consult fables that my people have about hers:
strike quickly
eat fast
and don't look back.

Beneath my mud-clad feet are trestles of old wood
quavering under summoned weight
gelling thunderously into a force of nature
and the purity of blind action.


In a yellow globe dripping
dangling over a coruscating river
youths caper, faun-like
on the edge of the world -
sanguine tribes of my people.

Two guys are re-calculating pi
according to the original Greek method.
Doubt feeds and grows fat.
Tomorrow then.
when March is over.