Braveheart the Crawfish is not.
Fighting the red mud water, he treads against
the mass motion of molecules
across the middle of the road.
He is assigned by nature both inside and out
to defend his puddle
sent roaring across County Road 127
by this August deluge.
So as my two-thousand pound Pontiac approaches,
in spite of the waters surging over him,
he rears on his hind legs to his full four inches.
The current whips around his knees,
Upraised forelegs and antenna
give him fifty percent more presence.
Though a comrade lies two feet away
A puddle of crawfish puree-
never once does he question
whether his territory
is worth defending.
I drive around him
because it is his territory-
as Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse
drowned Custer in his own blood
for violating this same rule.
|Braveheart the Crawfish
|These poems are
tracks marking the
happy meandering path
of ongoing discovery ...
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