Katabatic Kuchina
This raw wind roars and buffets me with rough
And scornful blows from unseen vantage-points.
Exposed, out on a Western hill, I have
Nowhere to hide from these insulting knocks,
But must endure until I can achieve
Some place of shelter from the weather’s bane.
Much as those pale-faced, blindfold prisoners
Once bore the contumelious assaults
Of savage redskin captors, long ago,
Whilst waiting for relieving arrow-barbs
To flense their forfeit lives, (through flesh too flayed
To warrant further degradation there),
Before the gory trophies of their hair, fresh-scalped,
Became adornments for the tribal totem-pole.
