Ghost of the Pequot Sachem

An endless walk between dusk and dawn,
always an arm’s length from the living, he moves on.
The fox senses his shadow but isn’t quite sure.
Scentless, neither predator nor prey,
it is a poke of wind,
quickly disregarded.

When they came and bulldozed all clarity,
they made muddy the creeks of reason.
Trees lost meaning. Phosphorescent leaves signaling  
the coming slow season, mean conspicuous consumption,
not a time for turning inward.

He no longer feels cool October or sticky July.
Rain in the face brings no relief. The forest, quiet as a dead star,
has lost its teeth. It hides in darkness, so far away, forgotten
like campfires of long ago.