RATTLING-CLAW
87
Trembling at every touch of casual hand,
Eager to salvage from our talk a glance
Of admiration, a morsel of approval.
And warranted they were! Suffused her flesh
From clear cold winds; seductive was the curve
Of throat that palpitated with an ardor
Sprung from a wild sweet earth; the dusky eyes,
Low-lidded with a shy slow invitation—
A crimson lily ripe for seed, and waiting,
Waiting for pollen-bearing winds to come
From out a far low country, a humming-bird,
A butterfly, a roving bumblebee.
Eager to salvage from our talk a glance
Of admiration, a morsel of approval.
And warranted they were! Suffused her flesh
From clear cold winds; seductive was the curve
Of throat that palpitated with an ardor
Sprung from a wild sweet earth; the dusky eyes,
Low-lidded with a shy slow invitation—
A crimson lily ripe for seed, and waiting,
Waiting for pollen-bearing winds to come
From out a far low country, a humming-bird,
A butterfly, a roving bumblebee.
And later, when we left old Two-Guns nodding
Beside the fire, and ventured down the trail
To Heron Spring, to fill our birch-bark buckets—
Vivid the memory: the stoic firs,
The lichen-covered ridge, the pool of sky
Quivering with silver fish, the eager pupil
Close by my side the while my finger sketched
On night the constellations, star by star,
The Northern Crown, the Bear, the Flying Swan—
Too few they were! And when a timber-wolf
Shivered the solitude with eerie wails
Beside the fire, and ventured down the trail
To Heron Spring, to fill our birch-bark buckets—
Vivid the memory: the stoic firs,
The lichen-covered ridge, the pool of sky
Quivering with silver fish, the eager pupil
Close by my side the while my finger sketched
On night the constellations, star by star,
The Northern Crown, the Bear, the Flying Swan—
Too few they were! And when a timber-wolf
Shivered the solitude with eerie wails
