image borrowed from bing
“It is a beggar’s pride that he is not a thief.”
He chose to live alone,
building his hogan on an exposed ridge,
where he could enjoy creating humungous bonfires
and have a panoramic view of the night sky.
It was the time of Rityok,
when Winter was nearly exhausted,
but far from spent, as one night
it raised a ruckus because it could,
filling the darkness with a terrible howling,
tinged with tiotypen thunder, crackling
like dropping boulders on dinosaur eggs,
piercing the thick Swaboll hides that were
stretched tight over the pine spines
of his structure, rolling relentlessly
like a runaway herd of corsores,
heads down, blindly trampling
everything in their shaggy path.
At midnight the elder Tribiluk,
had a belly full of the roaring
as he stepped outside, grateful to be wearing
triple-thick branak hides--as swarms
of indifferent hail pellets pounded at his body,
chilling him to the bone, standing tall
and shivering in Winter’s maw.
“I am Votok,” he yelled, his voice sounding tiny,
“As Shaman I demand that you cease this onslaught
so that I may sleep!”
“You are nothing, not worthy of notice, less
than a flyspeck beneath my wrath,”
moaned the wild wind through frozen teeth,
sending bevies of ice slivers to stab at his face;
“Never forget that I am the god of wind,
the master of storms, and I will
have my way with you!”
followed by blinding flashes of branch lightning
and deafening peals of thunder
that sounded like cruel laughter.
The old man sank to his knees, bowing deeply,
his three condor feathers bending back flat,
his colorful ribbons being pasted wetly
to his hunched shoulders.
He fled back to his ring of stones,
to his small evening fire, pulling
the thick mountain sheepskin blankets
up to his dark angry eyes,
his arms cramping from clenched fists,
and was not aware of just when he had slipped
off to sleep, after the wind had become merely
a song and his futility had ebbed.
Posted over on dVerse Poet Poetics
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