by Chuck McKeever
Krummholz
Well, alright: I’ll be a little
Forest standing up
To katabatic bite
And if I twist and gnarl
Raining precious needles
At your feet so much
The better. Well, alright:
I will not be muskeg
For my ambition is anti
Sphagnitic nor am I
Of service in such
Sucking humble ways
As. Well, alright: like
River scar I move back
Ward in time like some
Kind of meanderthal
Hooting oxbow creek
Age seepage silting
Indomitable dunes
Into what passes
For a life. Well, alright:
Twilight of the Neanderthal
He lacks the words for everything. Or else
He might say that he forgives these new ones
Their coming. Their hurry, the deftness of
Their bodies’ sharp brutality. Strange sounds
From mouths, unanimal contraptions of wheel
And fire. Or maybe
He simply speaks as the river: the tinkle of
Breakup in spring, and how it changes
Shades as day does. Splash of otter
Waging war on those who live beneath
The riffles, rocks, riprap. Loon call. Pair of
Fish for dinner.
With no words he has no words for
Forever. Had he had them he would hold
It all within: him and them. The river.
Forever.
****
Chuck McKeever is a teacher, naturalist, and union organizer in Detroit.