Wooden Duck

Just to think, I may be the first.

I walk through the small iron door,
small like an Anasazi opening.
There on the stool--
a bearded Englishman pours sour ale.

The stained glass windows speak a story,
A running rabbit, a human caterpillar,
a disappearing cat, and a queen of hearts.
My emotions ebb like those of Alice, out of place.

Outside the window--
a green hill supporting Windsor castle.
It stands like an adobe village atop a mesa.
The ground is rich black soil,
No sign of red reservation dirt.

A small black bird perches on the wooden sill.
Is it a corn stealing reservation chicken?
No. It's a Scottish raven,
an Indian crow mirage.

No frybread or mutton stew.
I order Yorkshire pudding,
A meat pie.

Around the pub,
spreads the spired city of learning, Oxford.
Like tipis of the annual Crow Fair,
these colleges choke the town:
Pembroke, Old Crow; St. Peters, Black Eagle; Christ Church,
Red Wolf; Magdalen, Old Coyote ...

Here in the pub,
Queen Elizabeth rules by her crown.
Across the great dividing lakes
Within the sacred mountains,
grandmother Little Owl weaves on her loom.

In this room,
I am the red Columbus.

There are no other Indian brothers.

I hear the echo of an eagle,
The sun dance drums,
Whistling canyons,
But the wailing spirts of Stonehedge
silence their chants.

I truly am the first Navajo in the Wooden Duck.