Sad Story

The older he becomes the more deeply Scandinavian he looks and that's just the plain truth. Sunken eyes not knowing what to do with the deadly sky that stretches way beyond practical measures, and a limp that makes him dip with resignation towards the damp ground whether he's feeling cheerful or not. When he was in his early twenties, he scrambled hard to have his appearance even slightly resemble the warrior characters from the movie Dances with Wolves: long pointed braids, pierced ears, and what he believed at the time to be a sharp countenance. He wanted to frighten off the white man, the tourists with their speed boats coming from Cleveland and Detroit---or even local rednecks pounding beers and a gallon of vodka before trekking off into the trees to declare war on all the soft and fragile creatures. But now happy little children themselves run from him, from Old Man Who Rattles Ten-Thousand Skeleton Keys, and right around midnight---the poplar leaves whispering danger---he counts coup on stale animal crackers like his life depended on it.

dead lilacs---

on an ugly old rock

shadows