Tribal elders in their feathered garb
pow-wow in the middle of the road.
Bright red wattles shake
from bright blue faces
(reminding me of
rabid football fans) .
Smiling drivers stop,
though with a slight discomfort
to see something so ancient
that Johnny-come-lately, reason,
makes no sense of it at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem