A Stampede

[Captain Pike]

A great, gray stormy bank of clouds.
A cosmic head of Buffalo.
Move slowly across the sky.
They bring a cargo cold of snow.

Bunched up as if passing through a narrow gate,
silently, their charging hooves compete,
unerring movement through the sparse of space,
our sad Sun's angle makes it late.

Soon the dusty, dingy, blown-about debris
are covered, telling autumn where to go.
Our world will assume the sterile retrograde.
Of black and white and indigo.

Leisure and diets will surely cease,
as increasing layers hide our girth.
Why not try a tasty treat?
We are the fattest fools on Earth!

[Pendragon]

Speaking as one of Native American blood, I don't like it.

[Captain Pike]

Sheath your sword, Pen. This one wasn't for your contest. But now, I see the need to submit something based on the last picture -- chosen by you wasn't it?

I'm at a loss to see the "dis" to Native Americans. On the contrary, both my children are native. The idea of this poem came from a fall journal entry. Up until a couple weeks ago, I thought that volume of my personal writing had been lost in a terrible car accident I suffered two years ago. What started as a commentary on seasonal change slid into a bit of a happy satire of humanity in general.

Sorry to rouse any ill feelings.

Your brother ink junkie,

Captain Pike

[Pendragon]

The hatchet remains buried, Captain. I said I didn't like it. I didn't say it was degrading to Native Americans. One man's opinion does not a tribe or race make. Matter of fact, I'm Cherokee, so we didn't depend on the buffalo. It has more to do with my closeness with animal spirits, nature. Others might find it far different. We will not do battle. Peace, my brother. http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/chief.gif