It is a definite fact, hinting of some metaphor --
the birds have changed their morning habits.
I am looking for my deer bones to cast
on the Indian blanket a shaman gave to me,
to read a message from the random toss
of reality of the dead for the living.
I tend not to do this. I fear my own interpretation
of what the bones are saying. I could be wrong;
I have no way to know I’m right. Following what
I say can lead to unexpected conclusions the bones
never thought about, meant to say but absolutely
the right words in the right order meaning implicated
in the way they’ve come together. At best, I’m a half-assed
shaman; the bones rattle in my hand, look away
as I toss them, close my eyes before I see where