1.

On a picnic table, in Pine, Arizona,  
a Bear, Makwa, sits and meditates.  
Occasionally, with menu in hand,  
he scans the reddish-brown landscape  
          that’s 
partially draped with snow, a climatic  
rarity. But it’s heavenly here, he resolves,  
adding,  inittawetti-menwi-bematesiyani,  
that’s why I’m feeling good. After  
          ordering  
New York steak, jumbo prawns 
and woodland mushrooms, a bottle  
of cabernet is placed on a cedar deer  
rack. While dipping the sopapilla  
          in  
honey, he reads the wine called 
Zah was highly coveted by Bonnie,  
the 1930s gangster. The ruse evokes 
a smile. Then, on a cart that’s  
          wheeled  
in beside him, a miniature cast-iron 
stove with its legs embedded  
in ice crackles as two potatoes  
revolve and bake. From a silver  
          radio  
with a wobbly antennae,  
a saxophone is heard faintly,  
with Mayall singing “Going  
Back to California.” Nostalgia,  
          laments 
the D. J. Epic, graphic  
nostalgia.    

2.

Soon, sparks fly from the microwave’s  
slender chimney, reminding him of the time  
he gave Black Eagle Childs a tune called  
Askotewi-Ttimani, Fire Boat. Akin  
          to 
lovers separated by a wide river,  
whispers Nemese, Fish, the butter’s  
fragrance is corn tassel sweet  
and the sour cream senses earth  
          tremors  
akameeki, overseas. Combustible 
emotions, you could say, through  
supernatural alchemy. And per  
etiquette, the handles of your 
          silverware  
are designed with turquoise  
and corral inlay. “Say, I seem to  
have forgotten,” he asks, “but what 
do they mean?”           

3.

From a nearby table, a Mawewa, Wolf  
politely intercedes: If I may answer 
for Mayrin—once the shell-shock subsides,  
you’ll recall the East is a star and the South  
          is  
a galaxy falling as snow into a dish that  
breathes, especially at noon; and the West  
is a door of purple seashells, with the North  
being a lodge made with pillars of swirling 
          ice  
quills. Natawinoni, Medicine. These gifts  
will keep apoplectic reactions at bay.  
“Wekone? What?” More so, if by birth  
your heart is exposed. “Jesus Christ!  
          How’d  
you know?” Nanotti-meko-Makwa-webi- 
nenekenetama-wettikweni, Eventually,  
Bear begins reflecting on where he’d  
been. In Tanzania and Mozambique,  
          rows  
of white string that guided land  
mine-detecting rats over dry, ochre- 
colored fields resembled gardens  
being prepped for spring  
          planting  
back home. Beautiful,  
speckled atamina, corn. 

4.

Remarkably, rats can also detect TB,  
said the Wakotte, Fox. “They can?”   
Moreover, in the desert where you  
visited, a waterfall came back to life  
          from  
a single raindrop, the one that travelled 
with you on a Spider’s web, floating  
in the wind over distant mountains,  
oceans and clouds. Manetwi-kiyaki- 
          niittawiyakwi,  
There’s still much we have to do.  
Because the Earth beneath our feet,  
Kokomesenana, our Grandmother,  
struggles to heal herself. Thus,  
          in  
the moment before the Northern  
Lights glow fiery red, arcing over  
us en route to Antarctica, you’ll ask  
in a solemn, musical voice that  
          guidance  
be granted in perpetuum to the culture, 
language, religion and history of your  
children and their grandchildren.  
He was contemplating all of this  
          when 
an old, toothless gentleman in  
a large suitcoat approached  
and asked, are you Randolph Scott?  
After saying “Yes,” an armor-clad  
         horse  
became audibly restless at the four 
dragon-headed dogs staring at three  
galley sails billowing on the hinterland  
horizon.