It is rough hewn
and vague of form,
but it will serve.
The words are primitive,
but genuine
and honest.
The act is brutal
and violent,
but we are still alive
and we will be so;
inelegant and wild.
New horizons dawned
with every sunrise.
Strange peoples
welcomed us to their lands.
Never refined,
or adorned
as they are in stately circles;
we learned that extravagance
is a sign
of confinement.
What we could make,
or barter for
would clothe us.
Coyote skins
do just as well
as fine linens
at keeping us covered
and even better in the cold.
We learned that plain speech
is better understood
than all the filigree
and dialects
so smugly prized
by hangers on
of the Lords and Ladies back home.
One misunderstood word
could spark a fight,
or communicate bad instruction,
leading to injury, or death,
or hurt feelings,
or betrayed trust;
none of which are welcome
on this frontier.
Out here,
not even words are wasted.
As we cut our path westward,
we hears stories
of strange oceans
and giant beings,
creatures that beggar the imagination
and fertile lands
and mountains veined with gold.
But we’re not the same
as we were
when we started.
We are better at hunting,
better at defending ourselves,
better at killing.
For whatever evils
this land breeds
in its peoples,
we brought with us
evils greater by a score.
We’ve killed those
who would raid our camps
by nightfall
and dealt swift justice
to those with us
who would turn to the fold
for prey.
We no longer hesitate
when threatened;
we attack,
with skilled efficiency.
Without violence,
we might never reach
our new home
in the lands
between the mountains
and the sea.
Already the land changes,
from plains to rolling hills
and the spires
of Earth’s majesty
rise up to Heaven.
Father says
that we must winter here
and we will make the pass
when spring comes.
So now this house
of rough hewn logs
will be our home
until we press on once again.
We too,
have become rough hewn people;
wild
like the land
we now call home.
HG – 2017
