The Traveler
I
Among the quiet people of the frost,
I remember an Eskimo
walking one evening
on the road to Fairbanks.
II
A lamp full of shadows burned
on the table before us;
the light came as though from far off
through the yellow skin of a tent.
III
Thousands of years passed.
People were camped on the bank
of a river, drying fish
in the sun. Women bent over
stretched hides, scraping
in a kind of furry patience.
There were long hints through
the wet autumn grass,
meat piled high in caches –
a red memory against whiteness.
IV
We were away for a long time.
The footsteps of a man walking alone
on the frozen road from Asia
crunched in the darkness
and were gone.
.
by John Haines
from The Owl in the Mask of the Dreamer
Graywolf Press, 1993
.