Once, while in the ochre land of dream,
a raven called out to me, perched upon
a weathered bronze plaque which bore
the name and date of something important
to someone at sometime, now no longer known
save by the bookworms gorged on vellum..
He spoke deep of racial memory, that shared
stream of being, counting off each bead along
the thread of commonality. He told me of war,
of trees swaying like a sunlit sea,
of massive beasts weaving like salmon:
the herd, flock, school of one mind.
I gazed hard at him, in a feathery womb entombed,
and saw behind an effigy, hung from a cement limb,
flashing primal colors at the massive beasts
weaving like salmon below the concrete trees
swaying like a storm tossed sea along the shores
of synthetic, sturdy, eye-wrenching green.
Trampled by the boots of time, the plaque shuddered;
the raven, startled, voiced his displeasure while
the brooding clouds lowered their nimbile heads.
The ochre land of dream flowed and swirled around
my puckered toes as I looked about through the
falling morass at the broken land of now.