008 — The Mountain Healer’s Lament | Talon Z. Gray

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Many dogs come through this valley.
They bring their good intentions,
and some carry confusion like burrs clinging to their fur.
They search for bones, digging and unearthing whatever they can find,
leaving holes in the skin of the mountain.
It is not unnatural to see—it must feel therapeutic to them.
Dig dig dig. Discover.
After all, every dog must find its bones.

They arrive with their claws sharp,
ready to cut into the Earth.
This land is a minefield.

Every canine has a natural map and nose,
and they’re all zeroed in on a point,
unaware that there is danger lurking.

There are robotic animals wandering among the real ones.
Every dash, every zoomie, every unearthed bone is analyzed live—
harmless surface surveillance,
while the true sickness runs deeper.

The river here is poisoned at its source.
The roots drink deeply,
feeding venom into the veins of the earth, disguised as life.
The withered pines are the obvious giveaway.
Be careful taking a drink.

At first, you won’t notice.
Perhaps a strange taste on your tongue.
A flicker of unease in your chest.
But slowly, inevitably, the vitality drains from your limbs.
And if you take too much, you may never wake again.
It fades eventually, if the earth is treated.

The sickness isn’t in the trees or stones.
You won’t see it dripping from the leaves.
You can’t blame the animals or the forest.
Nor the mountain. Nor yourself.
It’s much more nefarious.

Deep inside the world’s wells, a dangerous process festers unnoticed.
So far into the Earth’s crust that the pinhole of light above flickers among shadows.
A depth where the water boils and cooks up chemistry,
leeching poison from the stones.
These wells are sparsely located and unassuming,
occasionally bursting with toxic consequence. Proceed with caution.

I drank deeply once. I learned the hard way.
To drink from the world’s springs is always a gamble.
Which ones are good, which ones are tainted?
Only you can tell.

I raised flags.
I scattered warnings like seeds in the wind.
I was careful—too careful, perhaps—
but better cautious than complicit.
The water is vile.

Still, the messages were dismissed,
falling like unwanted idealistic, all-inclusive canon.
My way of saying: they weren’t having my motion picture.

“They expect me to purge the poison at its source,”
“They say, take your able-bodied self, get on all fours, and clean the whole valley while you’re at it.”
They wrote the stack of checks. And here I am.
I feel like: (Struts) ""Money Money Money Mooneey... moneeeyyy!""

As if the solution can be uncovered with satin-lined pockets and silken eyes.

At night, I walk the river’s edge, scattering medicine where I can.
On calm nights, the mountain hums in gratitude, a low purr akin to a cat.
Other times, the mountain I love screams—her veins thrashing in fever.

Stop.
Drop.
And roll around in it.

I press my hands into the earth and whisper,
“I will listen. I will listen carefully.
I will find a cure if they will not.
I will never forget. Never forget.”

The mountain whispers back:
“They prefer fire over water.
They would rather cut than heal.”
The land tremors subtly in response to kind actions.

Paw-Claws are useful tools, excavation’s best friend.
Further upgrades will allow audible Drink-Drink distance detection,
provide instant testing of any surface water,
and work while in flight.

You look like a Top-Gun type.
These tools will save your life.
Keep digging up those bones.

And remember:
good pups leave no pawprints.