I awoke to a
cold ground blizzard,
the chill factor well below
zero, the traders had made
trips to the woodpile, the warmth
of the crackling fire thawed my eyelids,
I saw her on traders row in the San Juan,
kokanee salmon lying
on her table, Jim Bridger,
the first white man to set eyes
on her, stopped his wagon filled
with gunpowder, balls, flints, bear
traps, and whiskey, asks Kit Carson,
who she is. Bridger takes off his beaver
hat, turns it up, throws inside it a bottle of
whiskey and sets it on her table, "Raise a little
Cain, Animas River Woman of Durango," he said,
picked up one of her kokanee salmon and walked
off to his wagon for a cast-iron skillet and cooked
his fish trade over the crackling fire,
The buckskin tipis
weaved through the vertical
trunks of the tightly-packed dog-hair
lodgepole, the sounds are intimate, the
grunts and snorts of the elk where rut has
come, the ground near the Animas river muddy
with elk prints, the big bull tearing up the sod with
his antlers, I make my way to Animas River Woman
of Durango before the men get to her in rut season,
I set my bubbling
cauldron of homemade
soup and a special flint on
her table, and picked up one
of her kokanee salmon, "Raise
a little Cain, Animas River Woman
of Durango," I say, Jim Bridger I laid
eyes on her first, you see, it's all how you
do your trading and your priorities, the errant
tomahawk sliced my trade fish I am holding, Kit
Carson's throw way off course in the men's
competition trader's row games, black powder
shooting, bow and arrow, trap setting, skillet throwing,
and the like,
"bring the whiskey,
Animas River Woman of
Durango," I motion her to my
tipi not about to find myself empty
handed after months of isolation and
hardship, I demonstrate my primitive
fire starting technique, our rendezvous
hot, the flint scintillating our naked flesh,
Mesa Verde cliffdwellers
arrive with their pots, a very
welcome sight on trader's row,
Jim Bridger offers Animas River
Woman of Durango and I, Sweetwater,
a hand in taking down our tipis and took us
off in his wagon journeying on to the The Four
Corners through Ignacio, Cortez, and Mesa Verde
where we met Stone Creek Woman who pointed up
to a bird in the sky and said, "It is up to the pinon jay
where to fly next, but there is no reason not to observe
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
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|Reviewed by Vesna Vanessa
|This could be a marvelous novel..
exceptional write as always..
I've never known one of your writes to be anything less than exceptional..talent galore! You're very fortunate to be such a wordsmith..
|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|Reviewed by E T Waldron
|Fantastic story poem Sage. I was captivated by every word. You know your subject so well it flows beautifully!
|Reviewed by Kenny Baez
|It's a magical encounter in the depths of winter. Your words all come from a western landscape that is haunting and gives us a real
glimpse into country livin' in a harsh but beautiful plain-speaking world.
|Reviewed by firstname.lastname@example.org Bennett
|Like always you do have a way with words and you captivate the reader as a writer that you are and like always it is an indeed pleasure to read your work.|
|Reviewed by Aberjhani
|A brilliant boiling cauldron of historical pespective and womanist sensibility. Full measures and depths of characters step out of these lines as if their passions make them real here and now and almost turns our own modern-day reality into an alternate one. Fantastic work.
|Reviewed by john zimmerman
|I like this strange little tale and your telling of it.
it provides an interesting side bar to the history/legrnd of those times
|Reviewed by CJ Heck
|Sage, you sure know how to write an interesting story. God, I feel like I'm there when I read something you've written. You're very talented and this is exceptional work.
My very warmest regards,
|Reviewed by Regis Auffray
|I love the way you tell a tale through the poetic genre, Sage. You take the reader to the site of your story most effectively. Thank you for sharing this gift. Love and peace to you,