rare.htm Rare Air

The soul is in the soil,
the hunting grounds of hope.
The flat-thinkers always miss it
looking four ways;

Deep to the North,
Long to the South,
Far to the East,
Over to the West

Never up, gauging the distance of the coming asteroid,
or down, on the tracks they laid.

They miss the signs,
never noticing
the sun as a glint
off the tent pole of the sky,
or the moon as a pearl sinking in the ocean.
Deaf are they to the Crow-hawk hunting the hare,
or the worms feasting in the bone-dust
soil.

They stumble on in the wrong direction,
searching for their souls
like someone looking for the back of their head.

The search continues in vain.
Gone are the people who made
every bird song and elk bark a
gospel for the senses.

Now
the Earth is made
of iron, and nails and the
texture of stale popcorn
found on the bottom
of a New York City
taxi cab.
Every breath is a bullet to the
brain.

Dead cow boots kick the
bone dust soil, trudging over the
horizon.
So close .... so very close
they came.

Ten thousand feet below them
are the remains of a people
killed by Small-pox
given to them on
government issued blankets.
They once danced because of an
aurora borealis,
or the birth of a child.

Ten thousand miles up
an astronaut
sees their grave, and finally
understands.
He turns to the coming asteroid,
removes his helmet
and breathes
rare
air.