Blood River Mountain
Down in the hollows, a cry
from the wind skirting the mountain
frightened my poor white horse
enough he fled down to the river,
where the motherly willows grow.
The wind got me too, in my blood.
A lifetime from now, young blood
will turn cold, and my widow will cry
for her children who will grow
without a father under the mountain
and its shadow. By the river
will be standing my faithful horse.
Years will pass, and horse
play will solidify the kinship, blood
bond, between two brothers by the river.
Their mother, around every dusk, will cry
out to the boys, come home! The mountain
will stay tall, the trees will still grow.
Time takes life, and the mother will grow
weary of it. Her first son, on his horse,
will have to cross the looming mountain
to bring to the doctor his mother, his only blood.
He will remember his younger brother’s cry
he made the day he fell, forever, in the river.
The trout will stop traveling the river,
once the willows no longer grow.
An old son, alone, will cry
as he shovels the earth on his horse.
He will feel the chill in his blood
when he looks up and sees the mountain.
He will never leave sight of the mountain
after then, nor cross the river
once he begins to feel in his blood
a weakness, a fatigue that will grow
until he goes to sleep by his horse
and the wind, in the old hollows, will cry.
At the foot of the mountain where nothing can grow,
where blood was never shed, will be only one grave, for a horse,
and no one will be there by the river to cry.