Night comes; I close my eyes
Sleep steals my thought.
Even the dream-maker
has hit the rack–not one
image nor verse to spare.
How can that be–
here surrounded by majesty
Not one fresh thought
etched in the glacier smoothed
valley walls.
Tlinglet spirits rest
among cottonwoods–
houses of their dead, vacant,
decaying back to nature–
despite the mowed lawns.
I sleep through until morning
Unfazed by ghost winds
surrounding me–chanting
their spells, calling
bear and eagle upstream.
Word Play 