Here, in the Badlands, the weather gnaws
a recalcitrant river valley:
all elbows and knuckles and vertebrae,
no sloping shoulders, undulating ribs,
or rounded thighs.
Where twice as bright light bakes the clay kiln hot,
cracking and crumbling
as the wind shrieks
chisels of rain and sand
To leave:
tortured hoodoos
– solitary, amid the wrinkled sandstone,
as their flesh
washes down the gullet of the Red Deer
to empty into the belly of the South Saskatchewan.
The Badlands lie like the crumbled mould
used to form the Rockies.
Eon upon eon, fallen in upon one another,
a caved-in cellar.
So many histories that they’re all stacked,
layer upon layer,
waiting their turn to re-emerge.
Here, the spirit of the land,
lurks beneath the surface,
clutching secrets,
coveting memories.
In the Badlands at night, the darkness stares back.
As she lifts her head, her gaze wanders,
and settles above the horizon,
among the white streaks of the mares’ tails.
Leaving behind
the insect chatter rising from the pungent mustiness
of the dry and brittle grasses
clustered around the polished white tablet
scored with letters
arranged like so many pieces of black bone.
Time passes.
She strays a hand to the Great Pyrenees
languishing indolently at her feet,
massive head erect, eyes half-closed.
Her fingers scratch behind the ears and bury themselves
in the thick, white neck hair.
The tablet projects a sterile warmth;
her fingers have traced the shadows with reluctant fascination.
Memories ripple across the landscape, flowing over the prairie
and she turns as they flood down green gullies
scudding over the bunch grasses and the sage
flowing around the clay and the sandstone:
monuments to the weather
– spilling across the river, down the river.
She raises her voice, sharply, “Listen to me, dog.
You only saw some of our years.
We roamed here for longer than you know.
The Badlands were our home.
We ranged from the high reaches above Dry Island,
through Drumheller, and beyond the Park.
Look at me dog.
You see me now, my white hair, my lifelines on my face,
but then my hair was red and golden and long and
it fell in a cone around his face
as he bucked beneath me on a blanket on top of Dry Island.
Later, he said the juniper roots dug into his back;
I can still feel my guilty grin.
Once, in the winter, we found snow drifts
stretched drum tight between the ridges,
the snow skin was strong – even he could walk them.
Our boots squeaked hollowly, gingerly,
and we came upon cactus, purple in the snow with white spines.”
More time passes.
“The sun so hot, so dry,
and by the wet river you taught me how to drink exotic tequila,
and I taught you how to lose at checkers.
And another time the river ice shrieked beneath us, and
we scurried, squealing,
from places where canoes would scratch their bellies in the summer.
We savoured the thrill when we reached the safe shore,
and then you reminded me the water was even shallower in the winter.
How many paths did we chart under the spell of these strange vistas?
I remember where you asked me to marry you.
One of our children was conceived here.
Here, was where we came to plan our futures…”
The wind snatches at her hair.
She grips the bridle leather collar and lifts the dog to its feet.
Leaning into the incline, she strides,
holding the dog’s head against her leg.
“Come with me, dog.”
The dog has walked with her before.
Late, late – past midnight
striding,
shuffling,
reflecting,
Wet to the knees
oily moist sage smell rising from the dew.
Amid the giant mounds,
that loom and block the stars
– named and nameless constellations
stitched across the darkness
from river bluff to river bluff.
When a growl – so low, so far away,
emerges from the edge of perception
and ripples across the valley.
You stop.
And wag your head in search,
when a distant howl confirms
– something stalks the prairie above.
Senses sharpen and you discover you are aware
– of every sound around,
– of each sound you make,
– of even your breathing.
And you ask a gene-coded question:
‘Am I the prey?’
The growl grows,
louder – caroming from wall to wall.
Panting, and high-pitched squeals, whines,
punctuate the rhythmic thunder.
Before a single ululation erupts – drowning out all other sound,
braying some alien emotion,
And you are no longer alone in the valley.
Suddenly, from behind a mound – sunlight tears a hole in the darkness,
splashing a nearby butte with sediment stripes.
And in the light wash appears
– a pair of silver streaks,
marking a path upon which you were about to stumble.
The brightness spreads across the floor, up the sides of mounds,
preceding the source,
which finally hoves into view.