Breakfast with a friend becomes noon
Becomes lightening bolt to a prairie eye
Counting seconds to measure storm’s proximity.
In this restaurant built on native ground the
River forks just behind us and I know the
Soil is holy—
The same forked flash of life shared in a story
The telling trickled at first like rain then
Both of us soaked to the skin
Chilled to our frail centres
Rattling thousand year old bones beneath the
Holy linoleum how unlikely their resurrection
But if they could join us now they
Would not be able to comfort us.
History is one drama and
This is another
more coffee is poured & she tells me
Her story.
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