Navarre Scott Momaday

What did we say to each otherthat now we are as the deerwho walk in single filewith heads highwith ears forwardwith eyes watchfulwith hooves always placed on firm groundin whose limbs there is latent flight

Now the dead firstbornWill lag in the wake of words.Custom intervenes;We are civil, something more:More than language means,The mute presence mulls and marks.Almost of a mind,We take measure of the loss;I am slow to findThe mere margin of repose.And one NovemberIt was longer in the watch,As if forever,Of the huge ancestral goose.So much symmetry!—Like the…

In clearings where no other was. Despair,Which, in the vibrant wake of utterance,Resides in desolate calm, preoccupies,Though it is still. There is no solace there.That calm inhabits wilderness, the sea,And where no peace inheres but solitude;Near death it most impends. It was for Him,Absurd and public in His agony,Inscrutably itself, nor misconstrued,Nor metaphrased in art…

I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the waterI am the shadow that follows a childI am the evening light, the lustre of meadowsI am an eagle playing with the windI am a cluster of bright beadsI am the farthest starI am the cold of the dawnI am the roaring of the rainI am…

It is strong and beautifulIn my hand. And it is real.My fingers hold upon itAs if the beaded handleWere the twist of bristlecone.The bones of my hand are fineAnd hollow; the fan bears them.My hand veers in the thin airOf the summits. All morningIt scuds on the cold currents;All afternoon it circlesTo the singing, to…

to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it fromas many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell uponit.He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands atevery season and listens to the sounds that are made uponit. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the…