Victoria, British Columbia, Summer Solstice 1993
At a loss for everything
but words,
I’m writing in the sunlight
of a sidewalk cafe
when someone falls
over an empty chair and
lands on the table
in front of me.
I’m as drunk on language
as he is on booze.
A foxtail hangs from a leather cord
at his throat, like a necktie
over his t-shirt,
and when I ask him about it,
he tells me his story.
He killed the fox,
and then his mother said to him,
You took the life
of a free and beautiful animal
so you could feel like a bigger man.
Now the spirit of the fox
will make you pay.
He believed his mother.
I believe her too.
And beneath her words,
I hear the soft, alluring
voice of earth:
I dreamt each one of you,
you are just as I wish —
Go now,
walk your path,
breathe
and live.
– Harriet Ann Ellenberger
