I found them. Perfect red radishes
on a 60 degree December day
While sun shimmers with snow dogs.
Overhead, jets howl and echo in ice carved tunnels.
Harbingers of flurries. These radishes are the last.
If one wonders how I knew radishes were hiding
Under fall’s brittle remnants.
Leaves curled white by frost
I could hear them,
They found me. Amid semis and decorations.
Letters that fluttered down on me like peculiar butterflies.
Symbols slipped from a passing plane
Or maybe from a UFO?
I looked up to see if I might catch just one more
rippling from sky. But these were the last.
Oh, but I’ve see Them. Once before.
UFOs that is.
Not on an occluded starless night
When fog hides a myriad of fears.
No in heat of summer.
Their formations hovering motionless for a full
Wild Blue day over yonder Pawnee Buttes.
Searching, I thought they were, for smoke signals from lost tipis.
I hear a Chinook wind retreating now
I smell Crystal flakes swirling off Twin Peaks.
I can hear my ancestors singing near home fires
Under a late December moon. Hearing the whispers of Others
They would have called for me, then
a’da hi’wi’ni a’ga’li u’lo’gi’lv
Woman Who Talks to Sun Clouds