Old Photo
An indigenous man
Of this continent
Turns to retrieve
An arrow from his quiver
The attached strap around
His neck and shoulders
His right hand fingers
Surround an arrow
While his left hand
Caresses his spring bow
The power of which
We only guess
His dark hair wrapped
In leather on two long tresses
One tucked behind his right ear
That hangs across his bare chest
To the edge of his breechcloth
His face turned to direct his hand
The high cheekbone reveals
A smooth careful thought
At the end of his long hair
His loins covered in tradecloth
Reach just above his knees
Held by a braided cord
His left hip exposed
The warmth of his skin
Shows all the way
to his bare feet
Thin moccasins almost visible
Behind him a stand of birches
Frame him on his hunt
For game he might see
Scared away by his movement
To notch his arrows nock
On the taught bowstring
His anticipation is not evident
Though his slender muscles
Have been fed by the meat
Of his previous kills
He found in forest
And on prairie
As he waited at the draws
For his prey to hesitantly walk
With care on grass and rock
He teaches me correct words
In black and white
To admire his concentration
The feel and quiet of bare feet
On dry grass and small rock
His movement so slight
Noiseless on a gray day
I only wish were colored
For my heart to worship
This hunter’s stealth
The wealth of generations
Father to son
The soft cloth unable
To chafe him in summer sun
Or alert rabbit or deer
He's a quiet man
Used to few words
Scraping hair and remnant meat
Quiet hours spent tanning
The animal’s skin with its brain
Each day his thoughts calmed
By his careful respect
for the whole of creation
That surrounds him
A quiet prayer unheard
At the bright mornings
At the edge of dark
By a warming fire
Soft hides of his own creation
Each hour warming him twice
Barry G. Wick
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