Slow Smoke/Readers of Loam
READERS OF LOAM
Wet loam below a mountain waterfallIs like a tattered page from out a book,Rich with high tales of passing mountain folk . . .
Look! in the silt that rims the pool and holdsThe milky flood in a black cup of onyx—Here! in the broken ferns, a crippled elkTarried a moment in his flight, to drink,To nibble at the birch; and on his heels,Flinging from lustful tongues a foam, flecked redAs any livid toadstool, came coyotes! four! . . .
Here! where the rill meanders a silver yarnAmong the brackens, looping their broken jade,Ptarmigan stepped like solemn wooden soldiers,A mother and her palpitating brood.Spearing a globe of crystal water, eachSoberly rolled it down his gullet, blinkedA crimson lid, and pecked at the dryad's pollen. . . .
And where the chokecherry blossoms drip a fragranceUpon the air, a grizzly bear came shuffling.Here, in the patch of adder's-tongue, he clawedThe earth for succulence; there he sniffed,And tunneled to a nest of meadow-mice;Yonder he sprawled upon the bank, to drink,To paw the honey-bees, to contemplateThe blue-finned grayling gliding in the pool. . . .
Oh, there will come a day, when some sharp eyeWill fall upon this range, and mark this pool,When some keen reader of the great green BookWill come on footprints in the Loam and say:
Out of a land of alkali and sage-brush,Fevered of lip, he staggered to these hills,Pursued by desert wolves who had no spineTo snarl their jaws at him, save in a pack.And here upon the thick wet mountain-mossHe flung himself to rest among the brookmintsCool with the dew, to dream a little, to drinkThe cold green wine of earth; and in the eveningHe stood upon his legs again, refreshed. There, in the balsam grove, he built a flameAnd cedar shelter against the frost of night.And yonder, where the jasper cliff juts outOver a sea of combering valley pines,Like any wolf that freezes on a butteAnd spills the hunger of his solitudeInto the desert coulees, he flung his call,And waited for a dusky mate to answer. . . .
Here, with the cunning of a cougar, he madeA wide detour, scenting a tainted air,The strychnine in the carcass of a deer;And there, where the junipers are trampled downAnd beaded with blood, he put a careless footUpon a trap and felt the crunch of boneBetween sharp teeth unyielding as a badger's;Yonder, with ugly laughter on his lips,He set his naked hands upon the trap,And forced its jaws to gap with bloody mirth;And winning free, he went his way again. . . .
Here! on this lookout ridge at timber-line,With sun cascading over him, he sprawledDeep in the wintergreens, and sank his painIn mellow dreams—he gave himself to beauty:
The alpine-lily whose brimming cup he tippedUntil he spilled its wine upon the grass,The clouds that billowed up the mountainsideAnd washed their silver foam about his knees,The pinewood's smoke that put a pencil-markUpon the horizon, spiralled up the blue,And scrawled its lazy pungent syllablesAcross the sunset—these delighted him. . . .
And here, beneath the great-armed Douglas fir,Where stars slip by on quiet feet, and windsShake out a slender music from the boughs,He mingled his body with the dust again. . . .
Step softly here! among these pulsing flowersRooted upon his clay. Put down no footUpon their petals; bruise no crimson stem.These bloodroot blossoms are alive with him.