Monthly Archives: October 2013

Off to the north, on the mossy, shady side
of the planet, storms brew—churn with wet
energy stirred by gods yearning for the flesh,

or so I imagine in the wider ranges
of possibility, offering what science cannot
seem to find: practical solace for an open mind.

Ruled by the light, they have no clocks to punch,
no place especially to be except in the pulsing
heart of life, in the action they cannot feel

without flesh. We stay on their good side,
think positively as they dash from tree
to leafless tree, work and wait for a cloudy day.

                                                  O ye, of little faith.
                                                       – Matthew 8:26

We look up and out into a gray blur at dawn,
hear the chatter upon the roof and look in disbelief—
embraced by old friend rain. Religions hope to lift

the earthly spirit so, to settle dust, enlist legions, yet
this relief is personal, even if insufficient to start
the seed, turn hills green. Old cowmen know

Apollo’s course after tens of thousands of dawnings
and pray with dusty cough and desperate gasp—
wait for the weight to rise between wet pellets of rain.

Good hatch of hawks,
woodpeckers
and ground squirrels
for a dry spring.

No acorns to hide
after a blistering summer,
no dry feed by fall—
just bare dirt

where squirrels become
easy-pickings
out of burrows
for a sky-full of hawks—

easy to spot
at the head
of a streaming
trail of dust.

Across the dry creek bed, a girl is busy
trying to find her calf in the dark.
They talk long distance as she falls

from the dim silhouette of the ridge.
Her voice wavers in jolts as front hooves
find the mountain underneath the dust.

In the deep black silence that follows
it presses against her warm belly
I cannot see—sucks each quarter flat.

Some things we know without proof,
without science or light—
basic things of always truth.

                         …leathery past-gone settlers
                         wait for a miracle.
                               – Red Shuttleworth (“Let Fall Soundless”)

The primitive hangs in dust boiling-over
our heads—a heavy coat of wild generations
ground fine-enough to be inhaled, ingested
again—we keep busy waiting for a change:
for rain, for grass to hold the past
in check. Become green feed, then seed.

Hay dust floats from the barn roof,
green haze of dry alfalfa leaf
sticks in the back of my throat
I can’t cough loose—through barbed wire
young cows count each bale
onto the truck, plead with babies.

Grit gathering in the corners of every eye,
hearts anesthetized, we think of them
as people, weigh the whole and wonder
if our tribe has been overlooked.
Behind us, plodding rises into the sky,
a prayer that begs to settle dust and despair.

No dark clouds,
no silver linings
through Halloween,

each weatherman grins
with his gift
of clear skies

for the next two weeks
while the pickup groans
and haystacks shrink.

We plod like cows
inhaling dust clouds
to strings of hay,

make mental sorts
who goes to town.
Grounded now, we

pray in short-breaths
rather than cuss the gods
that own us.