The Church on Comiaken Hill The lines are keen against today's bad sky about to rain. We're white and understand why Indians sold butter for the funds to build this church. Four hens and a rooster huddle on the porch. We are dark and know why no one climbed to pray. The priest who did his best to imitate a bell watched the river, full of spirits, coil below the hill, relentless for the bay. A church abandoned to the wind is portent. In high wind, ruins make harsh music. The priest is tending bar. His dreams have paid outrageous fees for stone and mortar. His eyes are empty as a chapel roofless in a storm. Greek temples seem the same as forty centuries ago. If we used one corner for a urinal, he wouldn't swear we hadn't worshipped here. The chickens cringe. Rain sprays chaos where the altar and the stained glass would have gone had Indians not eaten tribal cows one hungry fall. Despite the chant, salmon hadn't come. The first mass and a phone line cursed the river. If rain had rhythm, it would not be Latin. Children do not wave as we drive out. Like these graves ours may go unmarked. Can we be satisfied when dead with daffodils for stones? These Indians-- whatever they once loved or used for God-- the hill--the river--the bay burned by the moon-- they knew that when you die you lose your name. Richard Hugo