Softly at first, slowly
the breeze moves
waves of green
over this ancient
seabed, these wind
and water shaped
dunes
Riffles form, the slowly
sweep up and down,
eddying into the troughs,
currents visible through
rippling motion of green
swirling, at times lifting
sand aloft, then dropping it
again in a new
place.
These waves sweep
over bones of life and
death, buried in the
heart of the land under
timeless sands, eons of bones,
bison, wolf, mammoth and
hunters with obsidian
pointed shafts, eagle feathers,
and tales of Coyote and
Creation.
Over ruts left
behind the wagons
of stern and hopeful
men and women, who
loved the laughter and
joy of children at spring
branding; over their bones
as well.
The waves roll on
over the dunes, hills
of sand, grass, wild flowers,
birth and death,
joy and sorrow,
covering all,
shaping
all.
To this inland sea I come,
casting forth my net,
far across these waves,
hoping for the elusive catch,
what I have lost,
what has departed,
what I have let slip
away.
© 1997 William Davis