Happy hunting ground

 

I still walk these paths in my dreams,

the old trails that weave through my life

my roots always exposed,

the totems of my passing on every side

wearing faces I no longer recognize

as my own,

sweat lodge brothers gone now

from days when we hunted together,

not buffalo or deer

but some more illusive game

we could never identify,

I canít even now

when my brother has moved on

and I age here waiting for the call

that would bring me

to that sacred hunting ground

so that we might hunt together again

What can this thing be

that we would waste our youth

in its pursuit

or has age made me no wiser

that my feet and heart

pursue it still

tripping over these same roots

drawing up the same pain

I thought had passed

wisdom, I learn,

does not come with age

merely from experience

 

 


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