Indian Hill

The road curved ahead
in the dark,
coming back to Indian Hill
after Thanksgiving night.
Comanche, Mohawk, etc.
Cul de sac after cul de sac
grand white homes,
raised over the last thirty years,
strange approximation--
bearing no relation to anything Indian
that I can make out.

There are more popping up;
you can see them in the morning,
drives leading into the hills,
undeveloped plots with names
to set the stage for the settlers to come.

Driving back,
in the dark,
I watch winter trees
indistinguishable finally
as witches brooms
from their summer counterparts,
they line the road,
decimated by telephone posts
strung wire to wire
leaning in for a kiss
across the yellow line of the curving road,
suburban gallows,
sagging weight drawing them to the edge,
the dark before the final turn.

We sleep in
and wake to pots of coffee ready
and three days of local papers,
full from thanksgiving stuffing,
our new family stuffed
in to Indian Hill
and in the last aching moments before we wake
the image lingers:

of golden cowbells,
filled with sand,
dull clanking falling on silent ears.
Irreverent thuds,
with no resonance,
and no cries for more.
Charles Imbelli
11.26.2010