As I took out alone
into a vast,
barren winter forest,
the sky started kaleidoscope changes.
Whites faded orange and grays bled red.
I had walked through woods like these before,
maybe a million or more when I was younger.
It was different now, I had to do this.
They were sure to be coming.

It was cold and the trail was roughly a trail.
I remember all the times that I had romped
in the autumn leaves with my brother.
Catching lizards and snakes near the streams.
Noting poison ivy left and right,
beware of sticker trees, quick mud, deer ticks-
as a cold wind licked my eyes
reminding me of where I was.
I had remembered long winters with
hard centers impossible to bite through,
but this was different, the woods were more dense,
the horizon line had thick snow,
same as below my feet.
These trees seemed quieter
as if they were respecting the dead.

Like a thousand soldiers
lined up to salute a fallen comrade.
I could of sworn I saw them at boot camp,
when I graduated, cheering me on;
a licensed killer
nice and polished for their approval.
Or were they there when I refined my skills
with the special forces.

My Grandfather was there,
he told me how proud he was,
but how worried he felt
looking into my eyes.

I swore to him that I wouldn't forget
the Reservation.

He called me an, "Amber Sorcerer of Survival."
His words resonate like a drum beat in my head.
He was hardcore,
he wore moccasins,
he was the heart
of the tribe.

Grandpa died
three years ago.

The trees were sturdy,
stubborn carrying snow on their broad shoulders.

The young branches
would sometimes bend low like an apology.
The older ones now and again snapped and broke,
giving up the struggle.

The sky is now shades
of storm blue
and night black.

It felt like I hadn't moved,
but I was miles from my plane,
miles from where I began,
and I could not stop,
least not today.