Being Daniel Boone

By C. Stephen Witty

Your eyesight poor
Hand shaking
Your left leg’s
Hanging there

And clutching
Your empty
Land agent begging bowl
You cry out

For the Shawnee
Who took you in
Held you
Like a newborn colt

Your mother
Shooshing you
To listen to
The forest

The calling of your
Ancestors
The quiet voice
Inside

Before the hoards
Drowned out
The ancient
Songs