Bull Butte
I
Standing still as long as always
It spoke legends from up high.
Always there. North and west
Of our barn. Looking over us.
How I knew I was there.
Not not-there.
Our horse-drawn wagon carried us
West to the little school house across
The creek from the butte. Our teacher,
Jenny Lasinski, at the door.
Bell in hand to summon us. Its sound
Made the butte feel both near and far.
Before and after school, chores waiting.
Worn dirt path carried us to the barn.
Hungry animals watching for us.
Glance west, north. There it was and was
how I knew where I was.
Humble the barn, dark at night,
Home to the unseen ghosts I feared.
Humble the chores. Bucket of oats
To the horses. Dusty, ground grain
To the cow. Fresh milk to feral
Cats. Hay to all the four-leggeds.
Water, always water, to us all.
Back to the house. Bucket of fresh
Milk in one hand made me wobble.
Butte over my right shoulder steadied
Me. It was to my part of earth
What North Star was to my slice of sky.
II
Last summer I return to visit.
Climb to its top. Touch its south-facing,
Sun-warmed sandstone. I remember
Something never quite forgotten,
Never not remembered.
Hands firm against one of its wind-
Shaped, curved shoulders. Feet against
Its ledge. Unexpected vibrations
Enter my arms, move up my legs.
I swear I feel earth’s core ablaze
Below. I want that. Not to have it
But to be it, and being it,
To open, to vibrate, become
Molten, not separate and not
Part of everything,
But everything.
I
Standing still as long as always
It spoke legends from up high.
Always there. North and west
Of our barn. Looking over us.
How I knew I was there.
Not not-there.
Our horse-drawn wagon carried us
West to the little school house across
The creek from the butte. Our teacher,
Jenny Lasinski, at the door.
Bell in hand to summon us. Its sound
Made the butte feel both near and far.
Before and after school, chores waiting.
Worn dirt path carried us to the barn.
Hungry animals watching for us.
Glance west, north. There it was and was
how I knew where I was.
Humble the barn, dark at night,
Home to the unseen ghosts I feared.
Humble the chores. Bucket of oats
To the horses. Dusty, ground grain
To the cow. Fresh milk to feral
Cats. Hay to all the four-leggeds.
Water, always water, to us all.
Back to the house. Bucket of fresh
Milk in one hand made me wobble.
Butte over my right shoulder steadied
Me. It was to my part of earth
What North Star was to my slice of sky.
II
Last summer I return to visit.
Climb to its top. Touch its south-facing,
Sun-warmed sandstone. I remember
Something never quite forgotten,
Never not remembered.
Hands firm against one of its wind-
Shaped, curved shoulders. Feet against
Its ledge. Unexpected vibrations
Enter my arms, move up my legs.
I swear I feel earth’s core ablaze
Below. I want that. Not to have it
But to be it, and being it,
To open, to vibrate, become
Molten, not separate and not
Part of everything,
But everything.