Game

Tracks are all that define these voices, hungry lives pulsing sacred ground. We are a journey of distressed shapes, red essence on parchment, occupying a life. We look for the fated four-legged that paced this way, a tested and well-worn path among storms, mud, into this shared hidden brush. Coyote, slipping by through old winter grass, warns in a pagan tongue, licking after our scent. We pick up pace, tighten our careless reins, snap back at the yellow-eyed clown with throat hunger, that gnawing bone that drives us on. Quieted, we hear the heart beating. A desperate breath crashes through dry branches, a silhouette give away. In an instant we let go of weapons and invite a quick death. We watch our knives glistening. Obsidian works for us. What image of blood on flesh, odor of iron. A vermilion sun heavy with spring looks upon reflections of death in hard visions, our favorable hunt— whitetail not quick enough for downwind lessons. Our horses burdened, deer shadows left on landscape, we push forward. These tracks ours now. Game will heal all. Our offspring dance, Grandmother prepares a fire and sharpens another knife. During the feast we thank any god absent from our table.