I have seen them. At times when the light is just so. I would like to describe it better. Unclear to me if you have seen such light. Maybe there are messages in birdsongs and one ought to record them, and create an index file, moments in order, to be reeled like panicked sunfish. I imply an image: light-just-so of an Indian not far, sighted, usually in buckskin is my guess, black bound hair on his back; the sky iridescent: aspen leaf yellow, violet and sharp blue, not a soft wisp blue but a dark, really dark blue, a radiant golden sunset, a fist height nearly gone then suddenly hidden by pine, and he would move away from where I, also still, from where I watched the Indian disappearing straight back from the tree until invisible.
No Indians were seen around where I live. I tell you. Except I saw this one for most of all year. On days it did not rain. When the snow was not deep, as an example, just before nightfall.
Once in springtime, when poets walked the woods espying ferns, like billionaires in sturdy shoes on soft earth, now and again snow mounds on berms within dark shadows where the sun breaks the woods and glints on them only once, I am certain how the forgotten ice was noted, when the poets were seen that time of year, I am telling you around that season, I waited on the opposite round of the ash tree for the Indian near twilight. I waited. It got dark and he did not appear. The night fell cold and I sneaked around the tree, not breathing.
No one there. The Indian was not there.
And when the girl phoned me with a taped message of GPS coordinates where to find the trillium [______] and that she would wait for me with warm Chianti if I would bring a flashlight and the miner's lights for our foreheads so we could play fairies. I declined. I said I needed to do something besides that, leaving it there.
I bought a drum and left it in the sunlight near the tree for the Indian. That night there was a tropical storm all the way up from the Gulf of Mexico. And the next day mayflies had taken over the forest and I cautiously walked all the way out there, first moving thru underbrush as tho on a slant of an imaginary triangle, calculating a straight line, approaching the south of the tree, stalking, now and again stopping, I suspected that the drum was there and sodden by the rain, by the storm.
I saw footprints where he had stood, or at least I thought the moss toward the northwest side of the ash was indented, and there was a milk pod. No drum.
I saw how the smooth green pod had an opening like a vulva.
Inside amidst silky seeds I found a nickel. It was tarnished but a gift.
There was a buffalo on the nickel.
I could not believe that one of the legs was gone. A three legged Buffalo is rare.
OCTOBER 2, 2009 5:00AM