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Like Raindrops


At sunset,

unseen insects ripple the lake surface like raindrops.

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I hear the owls in the distance,

friends who have moved on.

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Valentine’s Day


two-suns

We still dance everyday.
Not the dance of ballrooms, discos, or weddings;
but of two stars orbiting each other.

Each affected
by the others well of gravity,
of solar storms, magnetic fields, and hot plasma.

Our orbits are stable but elliptic,
one pursuing the other,
one being pursued;
but which one, and when?

We red shift and blue shift
appearing cool, temperate, or warm,
depending upon point of view.

Friends, family, and acquaintances
are mere planets.

We shall continue to dance every day.
And time?
What is that to us?
We are immortal.

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Grampa Ben with unknown menI recently came across this picture of my grandfather, Benjamin Odawa Littlecreek posing with a group of unknown men. I would like to know who they are. He traveled extensively during the winters when he wasn’t working at his Trading Post at Itaska State Park in Minnesota. He often went to other countries. He worked at Itaska from about 1947 to at least 1960 (That’s when I think I was about 5 when I saw him there).  So I believe this was taken during that time period–most likely from the thin ties I would say in the fifties. At least it gives people a general period around which to look.

Who are these guys? Could they be Russians? Are they from the Minnesota state capitol? Are they U.S. Marshals? Does that weird column or lamp post on the right give any clues? The guy just on the right of gramps could be Indian, he could be Russian… Can anyone identify the badges? Any clues, help, or answers would be appreciated. If you work at the FBI, or the CIA, or MI6, or the KGB, or even the Minnesota Historical Society, anonymous, or other tips welcome.

 

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Hazy snow flurries.

Winter white waves

glisten in the headlights,

ebbing and flowing across the blacktop,

as I drive home late at night,

in Red Lake

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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.

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Loon Calls


Loon calls echo through the ghosts of Tamaracks

On Chain o lakes

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