It’s 9:25 a.m., and I’m not late calling anyone. 
No visit to schedule, no extra grocery trip, no 
plans, no puns, no wondering when death

will happen. It has happened. No matter how 
many times I’ve rehearsed this, I fumble my lines 
and fall silent. How do I go about my days, 

seeking no one’s approval but my own? No litany 
of chores to do. No blueberry muffins to bake, 
cookies to buy, videos to find. Time stretches, 
unencumbered minutes filled with whatever I want. 
                        

In the dawn of time, pine needles gathered at the water’s 
edge and muskrats dug into muddy holes. The people knew 
how to be one with their Home. Wars about land, gold, coal, 
and oil came, and with them, painful divisions that creased 
and tore Grandfather’s heart. No longer content, people 

scattered, an unholy diaspora of their own design. People 
hurt each other, hurt for each other. So much pain filled 
their hearts and bloated their bellies. Hate hangs heavy. 
Angry recriminations flew like soot-winged shrikes 
and crows darkened the skies, coating the river with ripped, 

lost feathers. Coal-ash clung to Grandfather’s tail, dragging 
him down to the silty bottom among plastic rings and bottles 
with curling labels advertising beers and soft drinks, aspirin 
and prescriptions for unhappiness. People choked on lust 
and power. There was no absolution when the absolute solution
 
was rejected by those whose greed engorged them. 
Suffering mothers smothered their newborns long before 
they could walk. They saw only clouds that covered the moon.