Porcupine
Two porcupines dead
on the road
within a mile
this morning,
the first I've
seen all season.
No tire scuff
marks where death
came in the night,
guard hairs still
in place, no
streak of blood
nor scattered quills,
everything tidy
like sleeping. No
it was more
like praying over
folded paws.
Oh Kaheta, friend of the Paiute, only a starving
man would take your life, giving thanks to four
winds. You
never rushed into anything. But we
have forgotten the old gods. We worship diesel,
the sleek sedan.
Pray for us, for the wide path of
our intentions paved with stone.
—Donnell Hunter
Previously Published in Jam To-day December 1983; Children of Owl 1985; Harvest 1989
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