The violent snap of a tree trunk presents the ever-present power of nature. Three fledgling boys, testing their wings, absorb the scene with their culture’s icons of manhood: the big chief headdress, the patriotic scout book, the ever-ready man’s pocket knife. But, as the scene also reveals, their masculine intent to dominate mother nature is soon to be softened by the tactile heart-reaching presence of other residents of their new-found community: the possum, the deer, the rabbit and squirrel are graciously tolerant of the boys’ simple Indian fort. And so, the brave big chief mindset quietly morphs into the spiritual bond with the natural world. It is, no doubt, a sweetly reminiscent scene of boyhood, now swiftly fading. These three men today must wonder about their children’s future. Theirs is a generation less concerned with ownership and more obsessed with life on the planet of all colors which they have no right to own. Their voice will soon lead the way in the ongoing journey of the American frontier.
On border with our neighborhood,
A tree had fallen in the wood,
As lightning cracked it, laid it there
Where we then gathered what we could.
Warm shadows lost to open air,
Our childhood dreams now all laid bare,
We quickly foraged for each bough,
Each limb, each twig for our lair.
Then Bobby’s thoughts in furrowed brow,
His pocket knife thru bark did plow,
And Billy had his boy scout book
As we commenced our pow-wow.
My turkey feathered headdress look
Their eagle eyes yet overtook,
Our big chief play to guide our way,
Our egos soft, each found their nook.
When then our wigwam stood that day
In bark and brush and bright display,
We went inside our newfound soul
Where thru that summer we did stay.
Now mellowed in our shadow’s whole,
Our savage dreams then lost control,
Absorbed by that once mighty tree
On whom our names we did inscroll.
O’er hollowed stumps where possum be,
Big squirrel nests in canopy,
And rabbit holes ‘neath underwood,
Near deer beds scattered endlessly.
So many wigwams in the wood,
Our hearty youth yet understood
The strength, the trust in all our play
In our robust new neighborhood.
By summer’s end we went away,
More trees, like prey, without delay,
Now lightning twice struck to the ground,
Our savage hearts in slow decay.
They bulldozed all, and in a mound
Was Billy’s book, some pages found,
My feathered crown and Bobby’s blade
All buried on the battleground.
No wigwams warm now share the shade,
Apartments each so split and staid,
In lonely air I have now grown
And while my heart in mem’ries fade,
I still our wigwam’s loss bemoan
And wish that I had not outgrown
The need to build that dwelling lone,
The warmest home I’d ever known.