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.