The ancient avenues of thought fled
with the dawn sight of city.
Yet we tremble slightly, even now,
when the cougar screams;
parade our talismans of forefather’s glory:

stone carvings, walking stick and club,
the pipe smoked late into the night,
the stories floating up as smoke
while the dark stopped short
of the camp.

We never think about salt,
the endless need,
the search.

We buy it,
over use it,
drug ourselves with water
as we cruise across a desert
we will never touch
by daylight.

But the spaces of salt remain;
we, in our solitary nights, hear
what was whispered
in dreams
as the hawk waited first light.

The wind picks up
and something in us quickens
smelling rain.