​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.