He knew how he would die. We all know that.
One day he would chew the cud like everyone else
And brooding over the larger weather patterns
The clouds spoke of it when Whump! like the trump card of fate
He would stomp to his death
With all the land around him, her pounding
Hooves sometimes sound like the drums
Heard when the herds of horsemen were camped
In some ravine nearby, the very ravine it could be
in which he should die.
Hey! they would cry, or words like that,
As they sat by their fires, beating on taut skin
From his relatives, that was her way
To say we won! We won! They are
An unbearable presence and he prayed
That one day someone would come, someone
Even meaner, someone worse than the wolves,
And they kill, razing their stinking villages to the ground
And cover them with rocks like the rocks
It would lie there and rot when it came down to it
Its time to join the great onslaught and die.
May 1, 2008
Kit Robinson: Choice of the week [ed. Terence Winch]