Me, Crow, Fish, and the Magi

Me, Crow, Fish, and the Magi

Rooster,
the smaller he is,
the more he fills his chest with air
and crows.
He is not afraid of morning.
Nor is trout afraid, leaping into deadly air.
And I forget my own suspicions to follow some line
even with its hook:
Why don't you look me up sometime?

I'm going for the lure,
driving a highway,
wearing all my old lives,
scars on both knees
and crow's feet, a history
like broken fishline
carried by Old Whiskers
that Colorado fish, showing off
his escapes.

These are gods we follow,
sunlight or worm,
and we are trusting
as chickens walking to their death
along a hypnotic line of chalk
drawn by the good lord or Mesmer.

But the odds are good,
yes they are,
that sometimes we quit crowing
or chasing lunch. We forget running away
and stop in our tracks to listen
and hear the pull of our own voices
like the Magi with their star,
the wise ones with their camels,
perfumes and gold,
believing their inner songs,
a journey in the bones of their feet,
like migrating birds
or salmon swimming ladders of stars
to the beginning of life.

--Linda Hogan

Reprinted from Savings: Poems by Linda Hogan. Coffee
House Press, Minneapolis, MN, 1988. Copyright (c) 1988,
Posted over on Vintage Colorado Poetry