You, Canadian? The greatest
American? You fought to be neither,
but nor were you panther
that crouches in wait. You were egret,
your feet in the mud as you stood
above weeds. Both
your fathers would leave you
to war. Brock would say no more
valorous warrior exists.
Sure as apple trees bud, the pleas
of a peacemaker can't be imparted
while even your traplines have
got to be guarded.
The cities were the bellows of the wind
that blew at Prophetstown,
across the rivers,
over you. Gray wolves surround
the egret. Foxes slink
away, their coats the colour of your blood.
You'd say: "Sing your death song and then die
like a hero returning home." Yours
was the song of that egret, your life
like a burning poem.