Note: Os-da shu-na-le-i means good morning in Cherokee.
Thunder: the wild beasts trampling clouds.
Clouds are carriages carrying cargo:
Scent of rain, crunch of leaves under black paws,
Tap of nature’s tears on bear backs,
Sour-sweet blackberries between sharp teeth,
The aroma of blue-black purple mingling with fog
Of Medicine Lake, where Creator gave healing.
No, not thunder. Elk. Hundreds of them.
But here marches the tourist army
Slinging cameras and throwing vibes
Of happiness to make the elk smile
And bears wave sweetly.
“Them tourists are gonna get it one day,”
The tour guide of idiocy mumbles
As cameras flash like lightning bugs
And Medicine Lake escapes into the heavens
Where Creator lives in peace.
One day, the bears and elk will follow,
When Kuwohi’s candied sunrise dissolves.
All skies pirouette in sweet swirls
To melt into black oblivion.
“Os-da Shu-na-le-i,”
The bears and elk speak to Kuwohi
Before diving into Medicine Lake,
Disappearing from rain and cameras,
And ascending to the heavens.
