Sasquatch Sighting Poem by John W. McEwers

Sasquatch Sighting



Up north on the Indian Reservation
the myth flows like smoke
from the lips of men, ancient
like the center ring of a maple,
who have misplaced memories
of days before
the perpetual fatigue of age.

Voices like leather
scraping bark into chips for the fire
scratching vocal melodies
wordlessly calling for sasquatch
to rest his weary limbs and warm himself
with peyote tea
and song

'He sleeps beneath the earth, ' they say
'waiting for the spirits to call him to battle
against revenants of destruction
and the carrion worms who grind
life into rot.'
'He will end this, ' they whisper,
'And the winds shall be his sword.'

I craned my neck about, listening,
seeking a voice from the wood to attend the song,
but heard only the soft crackle of flame
and an elderly cough.

Now, south, I fear I'll never meet the beast,
legend of the north,
greater than the American Bigfoots
who are more ape than man
and possess no tales
of awesome superpowers.

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John W. McEwers

John W. McEwers

Nova Scotia, Halifax
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