George Armstrong Custer was a pompous idiot.
    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 ...
© All rights reserved.