driving through
the morning mist burn off
my car rolls along
pulled by
some invisible force
into this surreal painting
the blackened highway
my portal
hoarfrost shrubs
line my path
scant sketchbook forests
fill in
partial snow blankets
cover the rolling fields
that act as outline

suddenly thresholds cross
i enter the land
in an old time
ghost figures rise in the mist
i smell the blood of the land
this is the land of the buffalo
the beaver
the porcupine
this is the land where
the grandfathers and grandmothers walked
before they were told
they were no good
by the strangers they welcomed
this is the land where
they struggled at times to survive
but always celebrated
where they lived
sometimes in peace, sometimes not
some where healers, some were not
but they understood
this was the land