He was there——

    before the rising action rose to meet this acre cornered by thirst，

    before birds swallowed bathwater and exploded in midsentence，

    before the nameless

    began sipping¹ the blood of ravens² from the sun's knotted atlas³.

    He was there，

    sleeping with one eye clamped tighter than the other，

    he looked， when he shouldn't have.

    He said， "You are worth the wait，"

    in the waiting room of the resurrection of another Reservation

    and continued to dig for water， her hands， a road map，

    in a bucket of white shells outside the North gate.

    He threw a blanket over the denouement⁴ slithering onto shore

    and saw Indians，

    leaning into the beginning，

    slip out of turtle shells，

    and slide down bottle necks，

    aiming for the first pocket of air in the final paragraph.

    He saw anthropologists hook a land bridge with their curved spines⁵，

    and raised the hunters a full minute above its tollbooth，

    saying， "Fire ahead， fire."

    When they pointed⁶，

    he leapt into the blue dark

    on that side of the fence；

    it was that simple：

    sap drying in the tear ducts of the cut worm，

    his ignition switched on——

    blue horses grazing northward⁷ in the pre-dawn.