The Feast — Poetry Mark B. Hamilton *

Drewyer will return to Massac,

to join at the offered rate

as talker and hunter. A good load,

like a wagon he carries the freight.

We might get hungry for awhile

as most of this Christmas meat

has been the brain of his long rifle

with which no other can compete.

Around the fires aglow at mess

each man has ample, plus some.

Bellies are full, the night clear,

and all the stragglers are home.

At wilding fires we collect

Indians and French among

our Party to celebrate the feast

with drum and fife and song.

In Delaware and Canadian,

in Kickapoo and bottled cork,

a lyrical tune, a sounding horn,

a whistle and a flute, with York

a slave, and other fancy ankles

as everyone starts crowding in

toward turkeys turning on spits

with sticks of sizzling venison.

We drink each proffered gill

with pleasure warming our feet,

the Captain remaining in shadow,

his hut and chimney complete.

Every softened hide is claimed 

for clothing and high moccasins.

Even feathers are divvied up

for bunks now stuffed with padding.

Our quickened spirits flash in fun,

a tambourine of stretched rabbit

is struck and thumped as if unhinged

to fend Old Hermit Winter out.

With fiddles, song, and laughter,

forgetting all thoughts of sorrow

we feast into the offered dark

and stay awhile for tomorrow.

~~~