The Longhouse

Ian Walters

When the rain forced them
between the steam-glass walls
and under the low roof,
like Iroquois pressed, bare leg to leg to
belly, pressed into rain-slicked skins
in the longhouse heat.

After hunting under the old trees
and around the broad base of the
grey batholith, this fast clamor
fills their panting nostrils as a drug,
draws them tight like wet leather,
pulls the heady blush into
their ears and their cheeks
as the leaping shadows
stretch and pull, in the firelight.

The clamor was so great
that it was easy to miss the sharp,
native glance the two shared through
the multitude of wet faces,
theirs alone, as only the plains thunder
may bend the shapely grasses
with nary a sounding boom.

Easy to miss, as they pushed back
their chairs and their plates,
hot eyes locked,
moved together towards the door,
and vanished in a swirling steam
out into the rain.