Mt. Adams’ sepia sunrise

pulls my sleepy eyes   

to an appaloosa

swaggering into town.

 

Mayhem snacks on grass

just outside

my fenced lawn

 

slowly chews.

This land, foreign to me.

 

City kid eyes

try to understand emptiness.

 

Thoughts resonate in solitude

and echo off the mountain.

 

***

 

Neighbor Jack says…

 

“Them worm bellied coast horses

ain’t nothin’ like these studs.

 

I’ll chase Mayhem to the back alley.

You wait till he’s real close.

 

Then open the gate fast.

He’ll have nowhere else to go.”

 

I’m here to teach fifth grade

but am really here to learn.

 

“When he’s in the corral,

slam the gate closed.”

 

***

 

Mrs. Ambrose, my aide,

used to dig roots in the hills

 

“Why did you stop?” I ask

“Too much trouble, white man

had magic medicine,” she said.

 

Bald eagle flies ten feet

from my window as I

type these words.

 

His distant eyes

look like hers

 and I gasp.

 

***

 

Awestruck, yet panicky  

I swing open the gate.

Mayhem sprints for the trap.

 

Yakama kids walk by,

hardly look up.

 

I slam it closed, terrified...

the horse, anathema to me.

 

Hooves explode like grenades.

There is distant thunder.

 

***

​

Thursday drum circle:

I awkwardly pound my drum

whiteness drips from me

as fry bread sizzles.

 

I’m lost in silence,

like a culture displaced.

 

Eyes on me are sharp

like the stars above Adams.

 

***

 

Only Jack can get near Mayhem

 

“Want to make sure he’s healthy,

then I’ll set him free.”

 

White swans drift by with

snowy mountain certitude.

 

White man, fishing below.

Pale wash is empty now.

​

***

​

My last day in White Swan

Mayhem climbs Rattlesnake ridge

and races off.

 

Jack accepts my cowboy boots

a Yakama should teach here

I tell myself

 

as I retreat to the

comforts of the coast.

 

Mayhem turns toward me

but sees nothing.