Firewalker

In the firelight, wizened features
move animated shadows,
the quavering voice affected
more by age than fear:
"Very soon, the earth will speak,
the rocks like water flow --
by the time the morning dawns,
we must be far from here."

"How do you know this thing?"
I ask, respectful of his years,
"I see no sign of impending doom,
nor feel a thing awry."
Secretly I wonder if
this may be just his fears,
though I know this aged one
is not afraid to die.

"The birds, they tell me,
as does a rhythm in the trees.
The mink moves on,
the lynx forsakes his lair.
It will happen just as surely
as the swarming of the bees,
this mountain will soon awaken
like a springtime hungry bear."

We travel quickly in the night,
clinging to the trail.
By morning an eerie stillness
tells us that we're alone:
nothing moves, no bird awakes
to sweeten the misty vale,
no squirrels chatter nervously --
the animals are gone.

Glancing back at the old chief,
I see his eyes are closed,
a nearly silent chant whispers
puffs of vapor in the chill.
Speaking gruffly, I grasp his arm
to shatter his repose,
"We must hurry!"  Although I know
we'll never crest the hill.

My heart begins to tremble,
but wait --
it isn't my heart at all,
but a shaking in the ground.
A buffalo strikes my chest,
the world is swathed aflame --
darkness tears my breath from me,
in cacaphony sound.

The earth shudders underfoot
like a blanket in the wind,
a wild, bucking pony
that cannot find relief.
The old chief sinks to his knees,
and even despite the din
I read the words upon his lips
as the ancients welcome him.

Thunder, smoke and fury drives
sanity from my mind
as boulders the size of lodges
crash wildly to the ground.
My life is forfeit, I know it now,
I give it to the wind --
as frightened as a rabbit, and
deafened by the sound.

Scrambling, gasping through my pain,
I dodge smoking debris,
while foaming waves of earth rebound
from every rocky face.
Seeking to escape the hell
that seemed designed for me,
I refuse to die, refuse to quit,
and finally win the race.

Looking back at desolation,
that reeks of fiery breath,
I see the smoking mouth of hell
swallowing the land.
Tongues of flame lick the rocks
that nearly caused my death,
I can sense the old chief's prayers
outplayed nature's hand.

Dallas D'Angelo-Gary 99