Smoke My other self cries out in her crow voice, more wind in it than snarl...from somewhere, there, off to my left...he sits there in the clearing, in a grassy bowl at the bottom of the hill...he’s smoking, watching me...a tall hat of smoke rises around his head...where’s your brother, he asks me...he gets up from his rock chair... where’s your shining stone house I say...maybe my brother is there I say...maybe your brother is there he laughs...