Stars, Trainwhistles, Weeds

The feel as a boy is that of floating
with stars, lark buntings, prairie dogs,
and pikas traveling the same road
a long while just to meet us.

Skies then were veined and birdwinged
as right now, while rainbow fish
flew without moving
over the beadwork in creekbeds.

Yet even back then I must have halfway
overheard the distant trainwhistles
shipping carloads of thumbs and big toes
to the bottom of Egypt.

Oh, it takes a long time to arrive, longer far
to inherit the territory. Anciently intricate weeds
brush against us, ever since childhood
and still we can’t name them.