to deer, otter,
the great fish
and birds that fly over
and are our bones and skin.
Even the yelping dog at our heels
is a hungry crow
picking bones wolf left behind.
And thanks to the corn and trees.
The earth
is a rich table
and a slaughterhouse,
for humans as well.
But this is for the elk,
the red running one
like thunder over hills,
a saint with its holy hoof dance
an old woman whose night song
we try not to hear.
This song is for the elk
with its throat whistling
and antlers
above head and great hooves
rattling earth.
One spring night, elk
ran across me
and every hoof missed
my shaking bones.
That other time, I heard elk run
on earth’s tight skin,
the time I was an enemy
from the other side of the forest.
Didn’t I say the earth is a slaughterhouse
for humans as well?
Some nights in town’s cold winter,
earth shakes.
People say it’s a train full of danger
or the plane-broken barriers of sound,
but out there
behind the dark trunks of trees
the gone elk have pulled the hide of earth
tight and they are drumming
back the woodlands,
tall grass and days we were equal
and strong.