WAITING ON THE EQUINOX
Beneath the naked oak with swollen bud
about to burst on twigs, I scan the stack
of limb wood stretched from trunk to granite
boulder set before my time, before cows
agreed on shady cud dreams, as I look for
trahundun – spy for Tihpiknit, keeper of
the Yokut underworld – my eyes prying
between each stick ahead of my grandson’s
hand and step as we chat around the fire pit,
gray ash cold. They find their names
etched in the concrete poured to seal
the dark abyss at the base of the rock.
A myth to share with my adult children –
rattlesnake dances and feathered baskets,
old Trudum whistling outside the den.
I'm done wrestling with this one, I think. The feel and rhythm have kept it on my desktop for several weeks now. Typically, I may edit a little more once posted.