The North Wind

the sound

of the North Wind


rushing through the trees


all night long.


Mom says, “Let’s stop and see if the bears are there.”

So we turn off into the dump grounds, where six large dumpsters are lined up on an asphalt pad inside a ten foot high chain link fence.

It is night.

Our headlights illuminate almost everything–to a height of about six feet.

The scene is ghostly.

A bear saunters out from between the dumpsters–wary, as any wild animal is on an Indian reservation.

He is huge for a bear, at least a good six hundred pounds.

He walks slowly away and out of the compound with a full white garbage bag clutched in his mouth.

He is followed closely by a black and white mother cat–her belly hanging down loosely–
as if she were his pet,
hoping for a morsel leftover from her master.

Another bear rises from scrounging within one of the far dumpsters.

His form towers three feet above its five foot high walls.

He regards us curiously.
then disappears again within.

Strangely enough, we do not see each bear.

They are holes in the night,
an absence of light
In the form of a bear

Although, at just the right angle,
we see the glint of their eyeshine–
the light of their spirit within them.

*Bears, plural, in Anishinabemowin.

D.C., 1:52 A.M.

The sickly yellow of mercury vapor street light

reflects a clouded sky;

blotting out a billion stars nestled in rich inky black.


A siren wail,

the obnoxious rude honk of a car,

replaces owl song accompanied by an orchestra of frogs and insects.


No open window with cool fresh air;

rather, a room closed

against the sultry smell of sour milk,

bathed in the white noise of air conditioning.


Red Lake,

you are far away.

The Frogs are shaking their rattles

with no discernible rhythm.


They stand unseen

beyond the reach of the porch light.

surrounding the house

in the sultry night air


summoning me.



Sometimes we happen upon something in nature that is beautiful in the moment.

And then when we return, that beauty has faded or disappeared.

This is a bright orange shelf fungus I discovered in my back yard while I was putting some things away.

Midnight in Red Lake.

The air is cool through the open bedroom window.

Dogs are barking.

Somewhere in the distance,

to the Northwest,

someone singin’ Indian.

Their song fades in and out.

Rose Haze

Four white pelicans surround the boat
squabbling for a chance at some cast off walleye.

Red lake is so big that rose haze permeates the horizon
in all four directions.

Some clouds are so low you reach up and touch them overhead,
while cirrus clouds lazily drift high in the sky.

Hear their cadence and accent as we commune.
Old friends reacquainted.


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