When the bias is bad,
they crowd and push
like children to play
the upside-down game,
turning it all on its head
to find a silver lining.
Out of the brush
like thin cows
to the hay truck,
they come on the run.
We feed our future
miles from the road
to hear the native echoes,
like old Joe Chinowith’s
who ‘knew a man once,
made lots of money,
tending his own business’,
or so my father said he said.
Out here,
it’s easy to look away
to find them busy
at what they do best—
as if they didn’t know,
hadn’t heard the news.
drycrikjournal 