Genesis

By Earle Thompson

February sun bleeds orange
staining mountains
purple.
Coyote interprets, musing,
and transcribes telephone lines
that grow cold with chatterings
of the night.

Under the filigreed awning
of a tamarack, Coyote regally poses
his most prominent
and interesting feature
is his long, proud
nose.
Coyote grins, beginning
his soliloquy:

"Some label or call me
a cultural anomaly," he laughingly barks.
The outer rim of his face
and an eye were visible;
the other half was obscured
by a bough, then he continues
his spiel.

"We create our own
mythologies. I
may be non-linear.
Well, pard! Better circle
the wagons..."

Telephone poles extend into the sky
reaching for the moon.
They pierce the dark
creating a fine web of stars
on his fur and Coyote
begins again:

"Being the people's poet,
I count the syllables
and breaths--the rise and fall
of one's voice--trying to understand
and examine the rhythm
of the world..." ned,
"Stick-indians are powerful people
they come out during the fall.
They will trick little children
who don't listen
into the woods
and can imitate anything
so you should learn
about them."

Grandfather poured himself
some coffee and continued:
"At night you should put tobacco
out for them
and whatever food you got
just give them some
'cause stick-indians
can be vengeful
for people making fun of them.
They can walk through walls
land will stick a salmon up your ass
for laughing at them
this will not happen if you understand
and respect them."

My cousin giggled. I listened and remember
Grandfather slowly sipped his coffee
and smiled at us.
The fire smoldered like a volcano
and crackled.
We finally went to bed. I dreamt
of the mountains and now
I understand my childhood.