Climbing higher up the High Cliffs
Wind and waves whip at my back
Finding footholds
And handholds that
Were carved from the rock
By the Winnebago waves
The Winnebago winds
And the Winnebago rains

The cliff crumbles as I pull myself over
The final hold the final ledge
And I flip myself so my rear end
Plops down on the edge
Feet dangling above
Hawks below me circling
For field mice skittering this way
And that. Hurdling
Toward their demise
A woodpecker thumps the beat
Of my heart against a fallen log
And a red tipped blackbird spots my feet

The rhythm grows and the blackbird sings
My thoughts about the Winnebago
Growing louder within me and without me
Deafening. Until a broken twig says so
Suddenly that a whitetail is nearby
A doe. Still
Flashing her eyes
And minutes go by
Before I raise my hand to wave
And her not-before-seen fawns leap
From their beds
And hightail their whitetails from their heap
Out of view and out of mind
Only to be replaced by the Lake
Full of the givings she’s given me
Thanking her for all she gives this place

That’s Chip-wuh
To you,
Who
Travelled from away:
All the way from Dunn,
Or Rusk…
Or Dane!
It won’t matter you’re not from ‘round here
And travelled all alone.
‘Cause “you’re not from here”
Quickly turns to “welcome home”.
Soon you become a local:
Pouring our voluminous beer
And eating our fried food.
So next time someone comes ‘round here
Tell ‘em “that’s Chip-wuh to you”

The otters want to make escape,
But I know I can’t either.
For there’s too many creeks
And too many lakes
That house coyotes and beavers.
This land has given for centuries
To the Dakota and Ho-Chunk people,
Menominee and Chippewa,
Amongst the Dutch and Swedish.
And to this day
I feel trapped
In adoration for my home here
That I made with furs now strapped
Around my waist. Proudly.

Between these dells that weave
Through the upper left of my body
I feel the dying light
Of a star once burning,
A strip once churning
Full of life and the future.
Alleys and fudge shops that
Bowled and fed
The engorged among us

But now they sit starving

Beneath the Big Sky that once shown a star
But now only plays the closing credits.

Peering out over the valley,
Near the Prairie of the Dog,
The kids pick crawfish crawling
At the bottom of the river.
One day they’ll get the itch
To pack their non-waterproof boots
And shiny rings
Headed for flashy lights
And “bigger” things.

Tomorrow, though,
They’ll pack beaten bags
In haste
Headed for the prairie
To pick on crawfish once again.