The Indian came through the trees,
His trusty bow in hand,
The arrows ready on his back
And on his head a band,
With one bright arrow quivering
Like some expectant ear
That scanned the undergrowth for prey
That would not disappear.
Another supper for the pot:
A pelt against the chill
Of winter winds around the bend
And harshness round the hill.
The Indian came through the trees.
He came without a sound.
With only movement of the mind
He passed across the ground.
But there is one thing you must know.
It must be understood.
The Indian was just a stump
In a Norwegian wood.
©Ruth Twyman Lockyer Ørje, Norway September 2013