How the frantic and scared elephant plunges
over the cliff into a hillside ashen with mud,
a deluge of dust and gravel, El escombro
de la vida, my father would have called it,
this leading to the overwhelming question
of what is next.  Down below, the villagers
climb over the dead elephant and cut its belly
open to reveal a tangle of rope-like guts, blood
mixes in with the mud.  It begins to rain.
Everything blurs into revenge, the gore
of forgiveness.  Today I woke up groggy,
drowsy from yet another sleepless night,
the red tension of my quickened days, pace,
and I stumble into the bathroom where
on the medicine cabinet mirror I see them,
 the Coeur d'Alene Indians chasing a buffalo
(they used the same tactic of over-the-cliff-
kill) and below the women and children wait
for the animal to die, like this moment,
one loud guttural final squeal.  I blink the image
out of my mind, then run cold, cold water
to wash my face.  It's been a long night,
an even longer day.  Buffalos, elephants,
my days plummeting to their final rest.
A burst of ocher-mud-dust blooming ahead.